


It's Blood

by Eltuine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Bonding, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Post-Reichenbach, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Sherlock, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eltuine/pseuds/Eltuine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Real love isn't brains, children. It's blood. It's blood screaming inside you to work its will." - Spike, Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 3 Episode 8, Lover's Walk</p><p>It's been over a year since Sherlock Holmes jumped from the top of St Bart's, and while John Watson may be living, he's not doing much else. When a dead man turns up, alive and well, in his living room, John has questions. When said dead man reveals himself to be a vampire, John has a hell of a lot more questions.<br/>Sherlock found living without John to be intolerable, but now that he's returned it's so much harder to hold himself back. Something has to give. Sherlock just hopes it's not John's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Quite Dead Yet

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I should have learned by now that I will always end up with my foot in my mouth. Not two days after saying I'm only writing one fic at a time, this starts pounding on the inside of my skull, demanding to be let out. Well, I've got a thing for Vamp!lock, so here it is, in all it's strange, smutty glory. Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter 1: There, sitting in John's chair, looking thoroughly bored and unimpressed, is a dead man

Sherlock has been dead for a year and a half when John sees him again. The first time it's easy enough to dismiss it out of hand. John is in Tesco, picking up the bare minimum of food that he can get by with before his next pension cheque is deposited. He reaches for the store-brand beans on the bottom shelf, and catches a flash of black coat out of the corner of his eye. He whirls up and around, heart pounding, just in time to see a flash of dark curly hair duck around to the next aisle. He almost goes to follow, but shakes his head at himself. _Pathetic, John Watson,_ he thinks to himself, _it was just a tall bloke with dark hair and a long coat. Don't start hallucinating now. Your therapist will have a field day._ With that, he straightens his shoulders and makes his way to the cashier. By the time he gets back to his sad little flat, he's nearly forgotten all about the incident. It isn't until four days later that he realises his pantry holds several items of his favourite foods that he does not remember buying. 

The second time it happens, it's a rainy Tuesday, and John's umbrella has broken in a strong gust of wind. Sighing, he resigns himself to walking the twelve blocks back home without any protection from the sheeting rain. He's passing a park when he sees the man, standing under a tree, back straight as a rod, hair plastered down with water, coat lying sodden and heavy around his shoulders. John does a double-take, and the second time he looks there is no one there. _You're starting to get paranoid,_ he scolds himself. He wipes the rain out of his eyes as best he can with his soaking jumper sleeve, and trudges the rest of the way home. He curls up with a mug of hit tea and a towel, and falls asleep on the couch, still sopping wet. When he wakes up the next morning, with a crick in his neck, there is a parcel outside his door. It has no postage or addresses on in, but when he opens it, inside he finds a brand new umbrella. His breath catches for a moment, and for the first time in over a year, a small spark of hope blooms somewhere deep inside his chest. 

The third time, John chases the man who looks so much like Sherlock. It's been a tiring day at the clinic where he works, and all John wants to do is go home and crash. Maybe he'll watch some crap telly and shout in his mind all the things he thinks Sherlock would have said. He really wishes he had a good book, but the only one he's interested in reading has a six week wait list at the nearby library, and shilling out £20 for a brand new, hard cover copy is an unjustifiable expense, especially with rent due at the end of the week. He's almost back to his miserable little flat when he sees a man at the other end of the block, long black wool coat swirling dramatically in the wind, curly black hair wild and unruly on his head, speaking with a young homeless man. It's too far to see their faces from where John is standing, but he sees them both look up - at him - and the taller man quickly turns and strides away. With a shout, John finds himself giving chase. The homeless youth has disappeared, but John follows the whirl of black coat until it ducks around a corner into what John knows to be a blind alleyway. _Gotchya_ , he thinks, rounding the corner to find nothing more than bins and a pile of old wooden pallets. He whirls around, trying to figure out how someone could have gotten out from here without being seen from the street. After several confused minutes, he gives up, and goes back home. He is not terribly shocked when, the next day, there is another parcel waiting for him outside his door. He tears it open, and finds a brand new copy of the book he'd wanted. He grins, and steps back into the flat, mind racing at the implications. 

The fourth time, everything comes undone. It has been two weeks since the incident with the alley and the book, and John has done his very best not to dwell on the impossible somehow coming true. He spends the day at the clinic, trying desperately not to die of boredom while listening to a mother explaining how her child is _dying_ \- John tells her it's a cold, and to go home and leave the urgent care clinic for actual urgent care - or a man trying to explain that he must have a brain tumour, because his eyes are so itchy and the throat feels clogged - John gives him a prescription for eye drops and recommends he find a new home for his cat. By the time his shift is over, he's decided that he deserves a sainthood for not strangling any of these idiots, and is wondering if it was this annoying before, or if he's just gotten less tolerant of other people's stupidity since living with - since after Afghanistan. He heads home, contemplating whether he should just give up and retire, maybe move north and take up dairy farming or something. He is still smiling wryly at the idea of him wanting anything to do with cows, when he reaches his front door. It takes all of ten second for him to realise that something is off. 

His boot mat is skewed, pushed slightly by someone stepping on it. He knows it wasn't him, because it would have been pushed the other way by someone exiting the flat. He wishes for a moment that he had his gun with him, but pushes forth regardless. It's never been in his nature to back down from a dangerous situation, and for all he knows it's only Mycroft, deigning to travel up to drop in unannounced, make John miserable, and disappear once more. Sighing, he unlocks the door and lets himself in, and is almost knocked flat on his arse by what he finds in his living room. 

There, sitting in John's chair, looking thoroughly bored and unimpressed, is a dead man. He looks surprisingly lively. He is, in fact, using John's laptop and drinking a cup of tea. John has frozen in place, unsure if this is some hallucination or dream that will dissolve the moment he moves. The dead man speaks. 

"Watford? Really, John? I can't say I'm terribly impressed." He stands and makes his way over to where John is still frozen. 

"You- you-" John manages to splutter out. 

"Yes, yes, me. I'm alive. Moriarty is dead, his network mostly dismantled, and I'm back." 

"You BASTARD!" John shouts, lunging forward and landing a fist square on Sherlock's jaw, "You complete and utter _bastard!_ I thought you were _dead!_ I buried you!" He counters Sherlock's attempt to grab his wrist, and ends up on the taller man's back, arms around his neck. "And now you just waltz in here like you've only been gone a _week?_ I should kill you! And I'd bloody well make sure you stayed dead this time!" He flips himself off of Sherlock's back and slams the other man up into the doorframe. A pair of ice blue eyes stare back at him, and John feels something in himself break, and then he's holding Sherlock around the shoulders in a fierce bear hug, trying valiantly to hold back sobs. Sherlock stands stock still for a moment, and then his arms come up tentatively around John's back, and John could swear he hears a soft sigh from the detective. 

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispers, voice thick, "I wish I could have told you, that I could have stayed, but..." John takes a steadying breath and pulls back to really look at his friend. 

Sherlock looks tired. He has dark circles under his eyes, and he seems even paler than John remembers. He looks thinner, too, and there are creases in the corners of his mouth that are new. The past year and a half had obviously not been easy on Sherlock either. John sighs, and turns to the sad excuse for a kitchen in his flat. 

"I'll make us a fresh pot of tea. You can explain what the hell happened, why you didn't tell me earlier, and what on earth you've been doing all this time. And then you're going to eat something. Good god, Sherlock, you look like a corpse." He stops, realising what he's just said, and turns back to his friend. They both stare at each other for a moment, and then the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches, and they're lost, laughing helplessly. As they both calm down, John feels the tears behind his eyes threatening to well up again. 

"God, Sherlock," he breathes, "I'm so glad you're alive. You have no idea." Sherlock gives a sad smile, and goes back to the chair he'd been in when John had arrived. 

"Make the tea. I'll explain everything." John turns back to filling up the kettle. 

"I'm guessing that was you, leaving me little presents?" He asks over his shoulder. "Thanks for the umbrella. It's definitely come in handy this week." 

"Well, I saw what happened to yours, and judging by your grocery selections and choice of accommodation, you don't have much money to spare. I was planning on sort of... coming back slowly. To let you get used to the idea." John seats himself on the sofa while waiting for the water to boil. 

"Well, showing up unannounced in my flat isn't exactly slow. Did something happen?" Sherlock gives a one-shouldered shrug. 

"I got bored." John chuckles. 

"Of course you did," he shakes his head, _same old Sherlock_ , "Now, care to explain what the hell happened when you... that day at the hospital?" 

Sherlock gives a brief summary of the events leading up to his apparent suicide, from the assassins after John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, to Moriarty shooting himself in the mouth, to the awful, gut-wrenching phone call. John has to ask him to stop at that point so that he can take a moment to breath and wrap his head around everything. 

"How did you do it, Sherlock?" He finally asks, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, "How did you fool everyone into thinking you were dead? I _saw_ you. I saw you fall, saw the blood on the ground, the way- the way your skull looked... I took your pulse, for god's sake! How did you survive that fall?" Sherlock looks uncomfortable, almost unsure of himself, for a moment. 

"Well, the pulse was actually the easiest part. A little hard rubber ball, under the armpit. Temporarily stops the blood-flow, eliminating all signs of a pulse. Rather uncomfortable, but elegant in its simplicity." He pauses, and John gives him an expectant look. "Well, the rest... It's a bit complicated." John rolls his eyes. 

"Contrary to what you seem to take no end of delight in telling me, I'm not _actually_ an idiot. I'm sure that I will be able to keep up." 

"I don't think you're an idiot, John," Sherlock says quietly, "Quite the opposite, in fact. Which is why this next part is so difficult to explain." 

John raises a questioning eyebrow. "Try me." 

"Hmm..." Sherlock starts, "Well, I'll start simply. I didn't die that day because the circumstances that happened were not sufficient to kill me." John gives him a disbelieving look. "I'm not just saying that because I have an absurdly high opinion of myself. Though, even so, it wouldn't be unjustified." John lets out an amused huff of air. "A fall from a building cannot kill me because there are only three things that can. Dismembering my head from my body, burning me to ash, or destroying my heart." Now it's John's turn to sit in stunned silence again. 

"Um, Sherlock, maybe we should take a break, have something to eat," he ventures cautiously, "You look like you could use a good sleep, and several thousand calories." Sherlock looks annoyed. 

"I haven't gone insane, John. Here, I'll prove it." And with that, he produces a viciously sharp knife from within his coat, and before John can even shout "no!" brings it down against his left forearm, leaving a shallow, ten centimetre long slash in his pale skin. 

"Jesus Sherlock!" John shouts, sprinting to the pantry for a tea towel, "What in god's name did you do that-" he brings himself up short when he reaches Sherlock, and, low and behold, his arm is unmarred, save for a small smear of blood. The skin is unbroken, and looks as though it had never been cut at all. "What in blazes? Let me see that!" John grabs the knife before Sherlock can stop him, and inspects the blade. It looks perfectly normal, very sharp in fact, but John presses the tip into the pad of his thumb to check, drawing a small dot of blood. Sherlock lets out a soft hiss, and is suddenly on the other side of the room. _How the hell...?_

"I apologise," Sherlock murmurs in a strained voice, "I haven't been very good about feeding regularly, and..." He trails off, and John is even more confused. 

"Okay, let's pretend for a moment that I have no idea what on earth you're talking about. How did you do the thing with the knife?" Sherlock looks irritated when he answers, 

"I heal very quickly. A shallow cut like that, almost before I can even start to bleed." 

"And you were in that chair, then you were in the other side of the room before I even blinked. How is that possible?" 

"I am very, very fast," Sherlock deadpans, "Significantly faster than any human." John blinks rapidly, trying to wrap his head around the new information. 

"Wait, are you saying that you're not human?" Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

"Obviously." 

"O... kay... And... feeding? You wanted to _feed_ on my _blood?_ " At this, at least, Sherlock has the good grace to look uncomfortable. 

"Blood in general. I have no intention of feeding from you. It just... took me by surprise." 

"So, what you're saying is, you're a... vampire." John finishes, and Sherlock nods curtly. John starts to laugh, and once he's started he finds that he cannot stop until he has collapsed back onto the sofa, arms around his aching stomach. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous!" He gasps, "Did you seriously expect me to fall for that? Good god. I forgot how hilarious you can be when you want to. Seriously, though, what _actually_ happened?" Sherlock looks anything but amused. If John didn't know better, he'd say that his friend is insulted. 

"I'm glad to know that you find my deepest secret so amusing," Sherlock snaps. John is brought up short. 

"Wha- are you serious?" Sherlock says nothing. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, but that's patently absurd. There's no such thing as vampires." At this the detective glares, and launches himself at John, who is pushed back into the couch, blinking. 

"You want proof? Here!" Sherlock opened his mouth, and right in front of John's eyes, the impossible happens. Sherlock's two upper canines, up to this point perfectly normal, begin to lengthen, the ends sharpening to dagger-like points, until they are a solid finger-width longer than they had been previously. John has no idea what has just happened. 

"What? How? What?" He intones, earning a put-upon sigh from Sherlock, who settles back into the chair. "What?" 

"Any other clever questions, or shall I simply remain mute while you stutter through your crisis of scientific faith?" John is still too stunned to do anything but gape. _This isn't possible. There are no such thing as vampires. What in the heavens is going on?_ He takes several breaths, calming himself, and manages to ask a coherent question. 

"How, scientifically, is this possible?" Sherlock gives him a small smile for asking something actually relevant. 

"It's essentially a symbiotic relationship. I have no idea how long ago - no one does - but at least five thousand years BCE, a human was infected with a blood-borne virus. Whether by insect bite or contact with an animal, it doesn't matter. The virus reproduced in the human, fueling itself with its host's blood, until it reached the point that the equilibrium was upset, and there was more virus present in the human's system than could be supported without killing the host. 

"Now, in most cases, this would simply lead to anaemia in the human and, eventually, death, but this particular virus, for the same reason that any organism evolves, had mutated. Instead of killing its host, it gave the human a near-insatiable craving for blood. Thus was born the first vampire, or vampire-ancestor as the case may be. This early evolutionary stage had nothing but the craving for blood, so used the tools available - knives, swords, implements used for killing. At some point, this blood disease was transmitted from the first carrier to a second, and so on and so forth, until it achieved another mutation that benefited both host and virus." At this, Sherlock opens his mouth, allowing his teeth - his _fangs_ John thinks - to descend once more, then retracts them. "Humans with the teeth were more likely to survive, to pass the virus to another. This continued, mutations flaring to life and thriving when they were beneficial - strength, speed, hearing, vision. 

"Things got more complicated then. Somewhere along the line, a massive change happened, and the virus went from simple alterations and parasitism to repairing the damaged cells of its host. Suddenly, the early vampires found themselves healing faster, living longer, and eventually, they achieved immortality. Well, relative immortality, at least. There are some things that not even a very efficient virus can repair." He pauses, and fixes John with a hard stare. His brain is spinning. It almost makes sense, really. It's a far more plausible explanation than magic, at least. 

John takes a moment to process, trying to wrap his head around all of this new information. It sounds... possible, if not plausible, and is certainly a better explanation than demons and spirits or the like. "So... Moriarty didn't know," John says. It's not really a question, but Sherlock answers anyway. 

"Obviously not, or he'd have done far more to ensure my death. No, Mycroft, mother, and a handful of other vampires are the only living people who know... and now you." John thinks on this for a moment, before Sherlock breaks the silence again. "Come on, I know you have questions. You might as well just get them all out of the way now." He sounds as though he's preparing for a particularly unpleasant trial. 

"How old are you?" John asks, earning a chuckle from the detective. 

"I was thirty one when I was changed." 

"And how long ago was that?" Another small laugh. 

"Don't you know it's rude to ask someone's age?" He obviously isn't actually offended. "Well, King George was on the throne at the time." 

"So, World War One." John extrapolates. 

"Ah, no. George the Third." John knows that his jaw is hanging open in what must be a very unattractive manner, but he can't bring himself to care. 

"George the- but he hasn't ruled since the early eighteen hundreds!" 

"Very good, John. Your history teachers would be proud. No, he hasn't." 

"Were you in the Napoleonic wars?" 

"No, I was already a vampire by then, and had absolutely no interest in joining some stupid war for some mad monarch. I had better things to do." 

"And Mycroft?" Sherlock smiles at this. 

"He is indeed my brother, through blood, but not in the human genetic sense. We have the same... maker, for lack of a better word, to whom Mycroft refers as 'mummy' because it annoys me. Mycroft is some seventy years older than I, and takes great delight in reminding me of such at any available opportunity." John hides a smile behind his hand. Yes, definitely still the Sherlock he knew. ( _And loved,_ some treacherous part of his brain whispers. He ignores it.) 

"So, obviously sunlight doesn't bother you. Pretty sure I'd have noticed you hissing and catching fire every time we were outdoors during the day." Sherlock rolls his eyes again, and John has to bite his tongue not to say "careful or they'll get stuck like that". _God, I've missed you_. 

"A myth, though _barely_ based in fact. The sun does a surprising amount of damage to the human body. It makes the virus work harder, and increases need for blood. And before you ask, churches are dull, crosses are nothing more than religious symbology, and garlic is excellent in most savoury cooking. Oh, and all splashing me with holy water would do is get me wet." 

"And probably send you into a tantrum," John mutters. Sherlock raises an eyebrow imperiously. "Okay, how about blood? Do you.. ah... who do you drink from?" 

"Preferably, bagged blood, taken from blood banks. Don't worry, Mycroft has a system in place to make sure our meals don't cause problems for the medical system. Lately, however, things have been rather... complicated." 

"You've been dashing all around the globe taking down Moriarty's web. God, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me? I may not be Captain John Watson anymore, but I could have helped!" Sherlock shakes his head. 

"No, it had nothing to do with me not thinking you'd be useful. I couldn't put you in that kind of danger. It was... unacceptable to me." John sighs. 

"Alright, well, can't change the past I suppose. Are there lots of you? Vampires, I mean." 

"Not a huge amount, no. For a great deal of human history we were actively hunted, you have to remember. And there are certain laws that must be adhered to." John tilts his head in an unspoken question that Sherlock, of course, immediately understands. "Don't draw attention to your status as vampire, never create more than three new vampires throughout your lifetime, don't kill if you can avoid it, that sort of thing. Basically, keep a low profile and don't be an idiot." John chuckles at that. Of course one of Sherlock's societal rules would be "don't be an idiot". 

"How are these rules enforced?" John asks. Sherlock gives a martyred sigh. 

"There's nothing official. Basically, screw up badly enough and some powerful vampire or other will come after you. Wouldn't do for our secret to get out, cause all sorts of problems, not the least of which being we'd all end up strapped down in labs somewhere." John nods, thinking that it made sense, in a weird sort of way. 

"You said this was your deepest secret," John hesitates, drawing a nod from Sherlock, "Then... why tell me? Not that I’m not honoured that you've trusted me with this, but... why bother? Why come back at all?" That last question is the most painful one. What could Sherlock possibly have to gain from associating with a plain, boring human like himself? 

"I had to come back," Sherlock says quietly, "I couldn't just leave and never see... everyone again." he pauses, and then adds, "In two hundred and fifty years of existence, you're the only real friend I've ever had." John has no idea how to react to this declaration, and feels a bone-deep sense of compassion for his friend. Two hundred and fifty years is a very long time to be alone. He reaches out and places his hand over Sherlock's, causing the other man to start and meet his eyes, conflict and doubt written in the detective's face. 

"I'm glad you came back," John says, smiling warmly, "I'm glad you managed that one more miracle that I asked for." They smile at each other, and spend several minutes in silence, just drinking their tea and enjoying one another's company, until John's curiosity gets the better of him, and the next few hours are spent with John listening intently as Sherlock tells him about everything he's been doing for the past year and a half. 

It's well past midnight by the time John heads to bed, and as he shuts the door, watching Sherlock's still, reclining form on the couch, he can't help the warmth that spreads through his chest. 


	2. Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One and a half weeks after Sherlock’s return, John comes home to find a staring match taking place in his living room."
> 
> Returning to life is a bit of a process, Sherlock finds, but John is there to help things along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you'll remember from the last chapter, Sherlock said that Mycroft is about 70 years older than him. Now, if you (for some unfathomable reason) do the math, you'll discover that, based on the dates given here, Mycroft is actually 75 years longer at being a _vampire_. Sherlock doesn't count the time before that. So, I haven't suddenly forgotten that 1732 - 1645 = 87  
>  For those interested: Sherlock: Born 1732, turned 1763, two years after the coronation of [King George III](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_III_of_the_United_Kingdom). Mycroft: Born 1645, turned 1688, the first year of the [Glorious Revolution](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glorious_Revolution).
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I would love any comments you have!

Sherlock comes back to life in several stages. The first order of business, apparently, is to move back in with John. This is made very difficult by the fact that A) John lives in a one bedroom flat and B) Sherlock refuses to live in Watford. 

“Well, I’m terribly sorry that I could no longer afford central London after my flatmate up and died, but I can’t just leave now,” John explains, “I have a job here. I need to give them at least two weeks notice. And besides, where are we going to live in London? Mrs. Hudson’s renting 221B to a couple of artists or something.” Sherlock looks at him as though he’s said something incredibly stupid, and all that John can think is _I thought I’d never be looked at like this again._ He grins like a madman, which only makes Sherlock glare harder. 

“Fine,” he snaps, “Two weeks. That’ll give Mrs. Hudson enough time to kick the artists out, anyhow. I’ll take the couch.” John knows better than to protest. Besides, it not as though Sherlock really even sleeps that much anyhow. 

“Is it because you’re a vampire, or because you’re you?” John asks, certain that Sherlock will know exactly what he is talking about. He’s not disappointed. 

“Bit of both. I never was much for sleep, but I can go a lot longer than before.” John is curious again. 

“What did you do, before?” Sherlock’s mouth quirks into a little half smile. 

“I was a chemist,” he says, “I hadn't yet discovered my calling. Regardless, I was very good.” John returns the smile with a fond one of his own. 

“I bet you were. How’d you end up a vampire, then?” Sherlock’s smile dims, and John quickly backtracks. “It’s completely okay if you don’t want to talk about it.” The vampire nods, and stares off into the middle distance. 

“Perhaps some other time.” John nods, and places a friendly hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment before going to find his laptop and write his letter of resignation. His back is turned, and so he does not see Sherlock touch the shoulder where John’s hand had been, a puzzled crease between his eyebrows. 

-x-  
  


The clinic takes John’s resignation with, well, resignation. Mrs. Hudson cries over the phone when Sherlock calls her up to announce he’s not dead, and says that the tenants – a writer and a photographer – weren’t renewing their lease anyhow, as they were moving to France to see if it was a better place to inspire creativity, or some such nonsense. She can have the flat ready for them in three weeks. Sherlock whines, but John tells him that they can’t just show up at the flat and demand the tenants leave. And then, after a moment’s thought, adds that they can’t scare them away, either, which makes Sherlock pout and flop face down on the couch. John ignores him, and sets about washing the breakfast dishes. 

-x-  
  


One and a half weeks after Sherlock’s return, John comes home to find a staring match taking place in his living room. On the sofa, wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown, is Sherlock. In the armchair, wearing a three-piece suit and pocketwatch, is Mycroft. Neither brother acknowledges John’s presence. 

“Mycroft,” John says cheerily, hanging his coat on the hook by the door, “Good of you to drop by. Shall I make some tea?” When there is no answer, John just continues. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s no trouble. I hope that the government is doing well?” Another silence. “That’s good. Wouldn’t want society collapsing about our ears. Get up to anything interesting while I was gone, Sherlock?” This finally earns him some indication that he has not turned invisible at some point between leaving the clinic and coming through the front door. 

“I _was_ going to start packing-” John snorts in disbelief “-until Mycroft showed up and began hounding me with paperwork.” 

“It’s hardly hounding,” Mycroft sniffs, “It’s eight forms that you have to sign. Coming back from the dead is a tad more complicated now than in 1842.” 

“What happened in 1842?” John asks. Neither brother answers him, so he just sighs and puts three mugs out with a tea bag in each. 

“You do it,” Sherlock says after another uncomfortably long silence, leaning back and waving his hand dismissively, “You can do my signature better than I can. Just set it up. I want access to my bank accounts again. All of them, this time. No cutting me off and trying to keep me on a leash. I’m not your pet, Mycroft.” This comment is ignored by Mycroft in favour of turning to John, who brings over the tea. 

“Thank you, John,” Mycroft says, then he addresses Sherlock again, “I suppose that, as long as you’re back with John, there wouldn’t be _too_ much harm in allowing you access to _most_ of your accounts. The good doctor does seem to be a... calming influence.” Sherlock huffs, and crosses his arms, but says nothing. John doesn’t know what to think in the face of this pronouncement. 

“I want to go back to the Met,” Sherlock says definitively. 

“Hmm... that can be arranged,” Mycroft drawls, “Though only if Lestrade will have you back. He was demoted, you know. Only got back up to Detective Inspector three months ago.” This isn’t news to John, but it obviously is to Sherlock. 

“What? Why?” John is the one to answer this time. 

“Because of his associations with you. Bringing you in as a consultant, letting you into crime scenes. You were arrested, remember? ‘Proven’ to be a fraud. Lestrade was demoted, almost lost his job entirely.” 

“I finally managed to clear your name entirely after eleven months, with his help,” Mycroft adds, “Good job with the phone recording, by the way. Clever, getting Moriarty to brag about everything. Shame you couldn’t get him to tell you more about all of the pies he had his fingers in.” With that, he stands, and picks up his umbrella. 

“Thank you for the tea, John,” he say politely. He hasn’t touched it. John gives him a sharp stare. 

“You’re welcome. You ever let me mourn my best friend’s death while he’s actually still alive again and I’ll break your nose. I don’t care which sodding government you’re in charge of.” Sherlock smirks from the couch. If Mycroft is taken aback, he doesn’t let on, but gives John a deferential nod, and calls out as he leaves, 

“Do try to visit mummy some time, Sherlock. She only wants the best for you. As do I. You’ll have access to almost everything by the end of the week. Congratulations on your return to the worlds of the living.” And with that, Sherlock and John are left alone together once more. 

“So he’s been like that for over three hundred years?” John asks. Sherlock grunts an affirmative. 

“He was changed in the middle of the so-called ‘Glorious Revolution’. Wormed his way into the court of every British monarch from then until he switched to a so-called ‘minor position’ in the government in 1709. It’s difficult to live the public life of a marquis when one is supposed to be halfway to 70 but looks closer to 45.” 

“Wow. So, he lived through the English Civil War? I bet he has some stories.” Sherlock looks pained. 

“Please, for the love of god, don’t ask him to tell any of them. They’re all frightfully dull, and once you get him started talking it takes forever to shut him up!” John smiles, and tells Sherlock to budge up and give him some room on the couch, noting with satisfaction that any extra frown lines acquired while he was away have since disappeared once Sherlock began eating regularly. They end up with Sherlock leaning on John’s right side, legs curled up under him, John watching a rerun of The Friday Night Project, Sherlock watching John. And if part of John’s brain asks if this is normal behaviour for a heterosexual man, John firmly tells it to shut the hell up. 

-x-  
  


The move back to 221B Baker Street goes about as well as to be expected. That is, John does most of the work (fortunately Mycroft is kind enough to arrange for the furniture to have already been delivered), Sherlock points at things imperiously, and Mrs. Hudson fusses over the state of the flat. Sherlock’s things had all been placed in storage following his untimely demise, and the flat very quickly begins to look as though they had never left at all. John is pleased to see that the awful wallpaper hasn’t changed. Sherlock is pleased to see that the handgun smiley face is only hidden beneath a framed landscape photograph, which he swiftly tosses out the window to the back alley. Mrs. Hudson is pleased to have her boys back, and even goes so far as to make them both dinner, of which John eats two servings, and Sherlock eats six forkfuls. John puts the leftovers in the fridge, noting that the vegetable crisper is full of bagged blood. This doesn’t phase him in the least, considering that the fridge was never free of unusual bits of cadaver even before Sherlock had told John about being a vampire. After Mrs. Hudson has gone back to her own flat, Sherlock and John settle into their respective chairs with the ease of slipping into one’s own bed after a week in hotels. 

“So, do you _need_ to eat normal food, or do you just suffer through it occasionally so that people don’t start to wonder if you’re a robot?” John asks, flipping through channels for something that isn’t reality television. 

“In theory, I could live on nothing but blood, but eating regular food lets my body make its own blood as well, meaning that I need to drink less. Some vampires take great pleasure in eating normal food. Look at Mycroft. It’s only through the miracle of modern dieting that he doesn’t need to be rolled to his office every morning.” John tries not to snicker and the uncharitable comment, but fails miserably. 

Lestrade is less than impressed with the great detective’s triumphant return. His initial reaction is very similar to John’s, who takes secret delight in seeing Sherlock look at least partially cowed by the other man. 

“Do you have any idea what that did to me, thinking that you’d killed yourself? No, don’t answer that. It’s obvious that you took nobody’s feelings into consideration. And John! My god, I thought we were going to lose him too for a month there!” Lestrade seems to realise that the man in question is, in fact, standing right there, and has the good grace to apologise. 

“It’s alright,” John says quietly. It’s nothing but the truth. He knows that people kept dropping by for the month after the funeral not just to keep him company. He’d been placed on suicide watch, more or less, and not without good reason. Sherlock looks... blank. John isn’t sure what to make of that. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re not dead,” Lestrade says gruffly, “But if you think you can just come swanning back in here and start exactly where you left off, you’re sorely mistaken. It’s going to take some time before NSY is willing to bring you in as a consultant, and when – or if – it does happen, it’ll be the proper way, with contracts and complete paperwork.” Sherlock sighs like a child being told he needs to finish his broccoli before getting pudding, and Greg fixes him with a steely look that John has seen make lesser men confess to murder. “Is that clear?” Sherlock looks for a moment as though he’s going to throw a tantrum, but sighs and nods stiffly. 

“Crystal.” 

“Good,” Lestrade says definitively, “Now, come here you great git.” Sherlock suddenly finds himself pulled into another hug, but remains significantly more stiff and uncomfortable for this one than the ones he’d endured at the hands of John and Mrs. Hudson. The look on his face when Greg lets him go makes John wish he had a camera. “You ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll put my boot so far up your arse you’ll need a proctologist.” Sherlock sniffs indignantly, and John hides a smile by biting the insides of his lips. “You boys busy this evening? I’d love to head to a pub for a pint and some catching up.” John is about to politely decline – it’s difficult to justify the expense of a pub when you’re currently out of work – but Sherlock swoops in before he has the chance. 

“That would be lovely, Detective Inspector. I’ll send you a text so that you have my new number.” John shrugs, and mentally begins counting how much change is sitting on his dresser back at the flat, and how much of an arsehole he’d be if he paid for a pint entirely with ten pence coins. 

-x-  
  


It turns out that John needn’t have worried. For some unfathomable reason, when he goes to order a bottle of beer (the cheapest domestic available) Sherlock cuts in, and orders a scotch for himself and a pint of John’s favourite ale. He also gives the waitress a credit card, to start a tab. John gives him a puzzled look. 

“I am perfectly capable of buying my own drinks,” he says. It’s technically true. He’d found a total of £9 when searching through the pockets of various trousers, but it still would have been a rather pitiful night out. Sherlock gives a casual shrug. 

“I’ve finally gained access to my old accounts. I’m celebrating. If it makes you feel better, you can buy me dinner this weekend.” John will get his pension cheque before this weekend. He wonders if Sherlock knows this, but decides that, if anything, Sherlock owes him a pint, or several dozen, for what he put John through. 

Lestrade arrives not fifteen minutes after their drinks, and Sherlock launches into a (somewhat edited) story of everything he’s been up to for a year and a half. Lestrade is suitably awed and horrified at all the right places, and it’s oh so easy to slip back into this familiar scene. John had stopped meeting Greg for beers after the first few months, when it had become too much like reopening old wounds. Now, however, Sherlock is there with them, and every time John’s eyes flick over to the tall, dark-haired man beside him he feels a vast wave of relief wash over him. He’d expected that feeling to stop after the first week, when he’d taken to checking sometimes in the night to ensure that Sherlock wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. Yet, almost a month later, it hasn’t reduced even slightly. 

One beer turns into four, turns into more, and before John knows it it’s after midnight, and he is feeling happy and fuzzy. Lestrade looks at his watch and curses, then excuses himself, explaining that he has work in the morning. John gives Greg a friendly hug, feeling affectionate after seven beers. Sherlock, who has nursed two scotches throughout the evening, watches with amusement. 

“You take care of him, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, his words slightly slurred, “He’s a good man. You take care of him.” Sherlock gives an enigmatic little smile that John’s befuddled brain can’t interpret and answers softly, 

“I intend to, Detective Inspector, I intend to.” With a puzzled face, Greg leaves, and Sherlock goes to settle up their own tab. John suddenly feels very tired, and wants nothing more than to go home and crash in his own bed. A warm hand rests on his shoulder, and he looks up to smile at Sherlock, who looks like he’s laughing inwardly at something endearing. John wonders what it is, but he’s finding it difficult to think very clearly. _Oh dear. Perhaps that last pint was a bit much._

“Come on John,” Sherlock sighs, “You’re intoxicated. Let’s go home.” John nods, and allows himself to be led out the door and into the pleasant warmth of a waiting cab. 

-x-  
  


John has fallen asleep with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Every few breaths he lets out a soft not-quite-snore. Sherlock barely dares to so much as blink, terrified that any small movement might cause his friend to wake, and the moment will be over. When the taxi pulls up to Baker Street, he silently hands over the fare, and cautiously pulls John from the car, supporting his weight with his shoulders. 

"John, wake up, we're home," Sherlock nudges. John blinks blearily. 

"Hmm? Oh. Okay." He staggers forward, and Sherlock doesn't need to be a genius to see that the shorter man is not going to be making it up the stairs under his own power. With a huff that is half amusement and half annoyance, he hoists John's arm around his shoulders, and pulls him through the door, and then helps him shuffle up the stairs. Once inside the flat, John leans back against the wall, and then slides down to a seated position, his head drooping to his chest. Sherlock's heart breaks all over again. How could he, with his near-perfect memory, have forgotten just what it feels like to be near this man? John Watson is the most open, warm, compassionate person that Sherlock has ever known. His heart is on display for the whole world to see, for anyone to harm, and all Sherlock can think for a moment is how he wants to take that heart and keep it safe, keep it hidden and secreted away where no one but he himself can touch it. It's a dangerous road for his mind to go down, and so he takes hold of his train of thought and forces it bodily onto a different track. He crouches down and unties John's shoes, earning a soft sigh from the mostly-asleep man. 

"Come on John. Let's get you to bed," he says, doing away with the pretence of being a normal human with average strength and lifting John up into a bridal carry. A small giggle slips from the doctor's lips, and Sherlock looks down at him, puzzled. 

"You've picked me up," John says, as though that explains what is so amusing. Sherlock rolls his eyes, and mounts the stairs. The door to John's room is open, and Sherlock walks swiftly to the double bed pushed up against the opposite wall, depositing John. Now comes a moment of indecision. Does he leave John in his jeans and jumper, or does he try to help him into pyjamas? The choice is made for him when John starts struggling with his fly. Sherlock's eyes widen, and he is paralysed as John succeeds and then shimmies his trousers halfway down his legs before collapsing back, having exhausted the last of his energy reserves. 

He is wearing white cotton briefs. Y-fronts. Sherlock cannot breathe for half a second, before he shakes his head and takes his mind firmly by the shoulders and shakes. _Stop that. The only thing that will lead to is pain._ Instead, he keeps his thoughts as cold and clinical as possible while helping remove the aforementioned trousers. He elects to pull off the jumper as well, deciding that it doesn't see thermodynamically balanced to have one's legs bare but wear a wool jumper on top. This finished, he tugs the covers down from under John's body, and then pulls them up to his chin. 

"Goodnight John," Sherlock murmurs, and he can't resist the urge to place a hand on that blonde-brown-grey hair for half a breath. He pulls back slowly, and flicks off the bedside lamp. John makes a small, sleepy snuffle, and Sherlock's heart clenches. He moves swiftly to the door to avoid doing something stupid, and closes it softly behind him. He can still hear John breathing on the other side. If he listens hard enough, he can even make out the other man's heartbeat. He knows that John has been getting up some nights and checking if Sherlock is still there. He himself is rarely sleeping at the time, and with his hearing it's easy to tell when John tries to creep down the stairs. Sometimes Sherlock feigns sleep, curled up on the couch or his bed. Sometimes he simply continues with whatever he was doing before, be it staring through a microscope or following up on yet another possible lead for the last few threads of Moriarty's web. Some nights Sherlock has to make his way swiftly to the main floor of the flat, so that John doesn't discover that, on the occasions that Sherlock does sleep, he does so with his back against John's bedroom door. While Sherlock may have told himself that it was in case John's nightmares were particularly bad, but he can't really fool himself. After so many months fearing that he would be discovered and John would suffer the deadly consequences, being able to hear the man's breath and smell him so nearby is reassuring. Tonight, he leans back against the door and listens to John's peaceful breathing. He snores slightly when drunk, Sherlock remembers with amusement. 

While he was away, Sherlock missed his friend with a fierceness that he had not thought possible. No matter if he was sneaking into a warehouse in Belarus or hacking a computer security firm in Spain, his thoughts had always strayed back to John, and he had almost begun using the other man’s name as a supplication. When he was exhausted, injured, ready to just give up and let it all end, he'd drawn on the image of the steadfast army doctor, the unyielding strength and bravery hidden in such an ordinary frame. He'd asked Mycroft to keep him updated with how John was doing, and had read and reread each report the way lovesick Victorian women would pour over love letters, disgusted with his own sentiment. Mycroft hadn't given him pictures, but Sherlock hadn't needed them. He knew John Watson's face better than he knew his own. 

One particular excursion that forced Sherlock across a border and into Iran. He'd found himself trapped for two days while a squad of hitmen, too many for Sherlock to handle alone, had made camp not ten feet from the tiny cave where he'd been hiding. He'd already been 36 hours without blood by that point, and when dehydration had set in the virus had turned against his own body in an attempt to find blood to facilitate repairs. After a day and a half of silent agony, Sherlock had almost just given up and revealed himself, if only to get a mouthful of blood from one of the brutes before they inevitably finished him off. Instead, he'd played the violin, soundlessly, in his head, for John. 

Before he'd left, on evenings when the nightmares had been too bad or John had been too keyed up to sleep, Sherlock had played his beloved Stradivarius. Into it he had poured everything that he couldn't put into words, played endless concertos written for John's eyes, sonatas about each individual finger, whole symphonies for the scar on his shoulder. It was appallingly sentimental, but he'd been unable to keep it all in, had needed an outlet. So, shivering in an unmapped cave in the mountains, he'd played every song he could think of through the stabbing, burning, blinding pain. When the hitmen had finally moved on, Sherlock had emerged from the cave and killed three goats with his bare fangs, draining them dry, before the shuddering stopped. He'd then left twice the goats' worth for the unknowing farmer, and continued through the country with a new composition playing in his head. 

A noise of distress from the bedroom breaks Sherlock's reverie. He checks his watch and confirms that it's been long enough for John to have entered REM sleep. It seems to be a nightmare night. Alcohol can sometimes cause them, he’s found. These are not new, though their frequency had diminished considerably by the time Sherlock had been forced to leave. John may have left Afghanistan, but Afghanistan seems unwilling to leave John. Or at least, this is what Sherlock thinks is happening, until he hears John cry out. 

"No! Sherlock, don’t!" Sherlock is halfway across John's bedroom before his mind even registers what his body is doing. John is tangled in his sheets, paralysed as all dreamers are, sweating and shivering. His hands are clenched in fists at his sides, and Sherlock can just make out a few words in his unconscious mumbling. "Please, no. Sherlock." John moans. Sherlock dithers for a moment, unsure if waking his friend is the best course of action, but his mind is made up when John lets out a choked half-sob. Carefully, Sherlock brings his hand to his friend’s arm, watching for any signs of possible violence in reaction to whatever his mind is forcing him to relive. 

“John, wake up, you’re dreaming,” Sherlock intones quietly, but with command behind his words. John’s eyes fly open and he gasps. 

“Sherlock!” His hand flashes out and grabs Sherlock’s wrist like an iron vise. It takes a moment before his eyes clear and then he lets go, shifting forward to sit up with a groan, placing his face in his hands. Sherlock remains in the same place, next to the bed. “Jesus,” John breathes, “I dreamt- I dreamt-” he heaves in a great breath, and Sherlock places a hesitant hand on his shoulder. After half a heartbeat, he perches on the edge of the mattress, offering what comfort he can with his presence. He has a fairly good idea of what John had been dreaming about. This is confirmed by what John says next. “I saw you jump again. I-” he takes several gulps of air, and seems to calm down, at least marginally. He still smells strongly of alcohol, and is obviously not sober. “Sorry,” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Sherlock allows himself to run his hand over John’s shoulders in what he sincerely hopes is a soothing manner. 

“It’s alright, I wasn’t asleep.” 

“Thanks, I’m okay,” John says, still hiding his face. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock whispers. There’s a shaky chuckle, then John shakes his head. “Would you like some water?” This earns him a very confused look. 

“Are you being nice to me because I’m embarrassingly drunk, or because I’ve just had a nightmare?” Sherlock shrugs. John gives another chuckle. “I suppose I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Sherlock grabs the glass of water and two tablets of paracetamol that he’d placed on the nightstand and hands them over. John smiles gratefully, and downs everything in one go, then hands the glass back and lies down again. Sherlock gives a curt nod, then turns to go. John’s hand stops him again. A pair of midnight blue eyes, slightly muzzy from alcohol, stare up in the darkness. “Stay?” John whispers, and Sherlock is lost. 

“John?” he asks, heart beating far too quickly. 

“Just, just stay,” John murmurs, already being pulled back under by sleep, “Just sit. So I know. So I know you’re still...” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to. Sherlock knows exactly what’s being said, and so he walks to the foot of the bed, and then slides up the side opposite John - the side against the wall - and leans back against the headboard. John turns to face him, eyes already closed, and gives a small, sleepy “thank you” before falling asleep again. Sherlock watches the other man’s eyelashes brush over his cheeks as his breathing becomes slow and even. _I was wrong_ , he thinks, _I’ll never have this face memorized. Every time I look there’s something new._

After two hours without any new nightmares surfacing, Sherlock gives in to his own body’s demands, and lies down. The pillow smells like John - sweet shampoo, fresh laundry, tea, toothpaste, masculine soap, and clean sweat. John himself, at this particular moment, smells like all that, plus beer and rich, warm blood, and Sherlock is thankful that he had the foresight to feed properly before going out. He nestles his head into the pillow, and as he lets sleep pull him under, his last thought is of how this is all still such a terrible idea, but that he hasn’t the willpower to stop. 


	3. Bagged Blood, Lime Gelatin, and Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Loving John is dangerous. For John, and so by extension for Sherlock. The vampire has it within him to take absolutely everything from the man, to drain him dry - both literally and figuratively - and leave him an empty husk, and that would destroy Sherlock more completely than any stake to the heart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is both un-Beta'd and un-Brit picked! Canadian English and English English may be very similar, but they have enough differences to make things confusing, so I apologize if there are any mistakes!  
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading! I hope you enjoy this next installment.
> 
> Warning: Mention of human trafficking and sex slavery in both this chapter and the next.

John wakes up with a hangover, but it's not nearly as bad as it should have been, thanks to the 2 AM glass of water and paracetamol provided by Sherlock. He remembers that, of course, and he also remembers asking Sherlock to stay afterwards. _You're an idiot, John Watson,_ he chides himself, rolling over. It's no surprise that he's alone in the bed. He'd expected that. Even if Sherlock had fallen asleep, it wouldn't have been for long, and he would definitely have gotten bored soon after waking. The pillow has an indent in it, though, and John allows himself a moment of weakness, reaching over to touch where his friend's head had lain. 

_This is Very Not Good_ , he thinks. It had been easy, at first, to squash down his feelings, dismissing them as relief and happiness at having his best friend come back from the dead, but it's been long enough for John to start being honest with himself. After Sherlock had died, his therapist had told him to say all of the things that he'd never gotten out. He'd refused to do so, but after two weeks of numbness and near-catatonia it had all come out in sobs against his pillow. He'd said it all, how he was sorry for calling him a machine, how angry he was for being left alone, how he wanted his friend to come back, how much he loved him. He had meant it platonically, the way that best friends are supposed to love each other. Now, however, it's not such a clear distinction. He groans and rolls out of bed. It's far too early and he's far too fuzzy-headed to do this sort of intense soul-searching. 

He pulls on some tracksuit bottoms and a clean vest and pads over to the bathroom, relieving the pressure in his bladder, then brushing the fur off of his tongue. He heads downstairs and is greeted by the sight of Sherlock standing in the kitchen, holding a bag of blood to his mouth, a look on his face not dissimilar to that of a teenager caught trying to sneak out with a bottle of vodka - absolute horror. John freezes, unsure of how to respond to this new situation, but quickly decides, for Sherlock’s sake, to act as though it were nothing more unusual than walking in on his flatmate drinking a glass of orange juice. 

"Morning. Hope your head feels better than mine," he says, shuffling over to the kettle and flicking it on. Sherlock pulls the bag away from his mouth with more dignity than John would have thought possible. 

"I am incapable of being hungover, and even if I weren’t, two scotches would not have been sufficient to cause such a state." John feels a little grin tug at the corner of his mouth. It quickly disappears when he realises that he needs to address what had happened the night before. "About last night-" he starts, but Sherlock doesn't let him finish. 

"I'm sorry, John," he says seriously. That's definitely not what John was expecting. 

"Er... What?" 

"The nightmare. I... I am sorry for the pain that I caused you," Sherlock's voice is quiet, and he's obviously uncomfortable, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I may have had good reason for what I did, but... I'm sorry that I hurt you." John is dumbstruck. Apologies from Sherlock Holmes are rare enough as it is, but one so heartfelt and... tender? John has the momentary thought that perhaps he should purchase a lottery ticket today. 

"I... Thank you, Sherlock," he answers, doing his best to keep the surprise from his tone, "I understand why you did what you did, but... thank you for the apology. It means a lot. And thank you for making sure I didn't have to stumble up the stairs drunk... And for staying." The last part is barely more than a whisper, but the look that John receives makes him very confused. Sherlock almost looks pained. John clears his throat, and turns back to the kettle. "Tea? Or are you good with... er..." _Your blood? Your meal? What is the etiquette here?_

"Tea would be lovely," Sherlock replies, a hint of amusement evident in his tone, "Blood may be necessary for sustenance, but there is still nothing in the world like a good cup of tea. I didn't truly appreciate that until I was in New Hampshire to take out one of Moriarty’s spin-off companies. Apparently the entire country of the United States has no idea how to make a proper cup of tea. They use nearly lukewarm water, and sometimes I could swear that their idea of 'steeping' was simply waving the tea bag in the general direction of the cup." John chuckles at this, and Sherlock continues. 

"Canada was a bit better, in some places. At least they understood what steeping was, though the nationwide chains were just as bad for temperature. And don't get me started on the food..." This continues as background noise until John finishes making tea and toast and sits on the couch, at which point Sherlock joins him with a mug of his own. 

"So how did you keep it hidden before?" John asks, "The blood, that is. I mean, I know that you keep some pretty gruesome experiments in our fridge at times, but I'm fairly certain that I would have noticed a steady supply of blood bags." 

"I kept a fridge in my room, in the closet, behind a false back. It was a pain in the arse. Mycroft thought that I was mad to want to live with a human, but I would have to be even madder to want to live with another vampire." 

John puzzles over this for a moment. "Too conspicuous?" 

"No, we're rather territorial. We can tolerate being with family, but being confined to too small an area with a vampire who doesn't share the same bloodline is... uncomfortable. Sometimes lethal if one party annoys the other enough. Probably some sort of evolved mechanism to ensure food supply is not taxed beyond its limits." John tries very hard not to shiver at the idea of humans as a "food supply". He's glad that Sherlock drinks from bags. 

"Do all vampires prefer bagged blood?" Sherlock shakes his head. 

"No, many prefer drinking straight from the source, as it were. It's very... intimate, though." Sherlock looks awkward discussing this, and John feels as though he's accidentally breached a rather personal topic. 

"Oh..." He fidgets, then sets his empty mug and plate down. "Well, I think I'm going to go shower. I'd rather not spend the whole day smelling of stale beer. Might go to the shops. Write down a list if there's anything you need." He leaves quickly to diffuse the uncomfortable situation. 

By the time he is showered, shaved, and dressed, Sherlock is firmly ensconced on the sofa in his "thinking pose" and John knows better than to try to interrupt this. He picks up the small grocery list written in Sherlock’s distinct handwriting and shakes his head upon reading the contents: 

_Eggs, milk, drain cleaner, human flesh analogue (gelatin or similar), bread, fruit of some kind, wooden meat skewers, pig's feet (as many as the butcher has), olive oil, lighter fluid_

It looks like the ingredients for a horrifying dinner party. He decides that he won't get the lighter fluid. They haven't got an outdoor grill of any sort that would warrant its purchase, and John remembers what happened the last time Sherlock tried burn-pattern experiments. As amusing as eyebrowless-Sherlock had been, it is not worth incurring the wrath of Mrs. Hudson for damaging her ceiling again. He deems the rest of the list acceptable, if unusual, and heads off to Tesco, leaving his flatmate to continue with whatever on earth it is that he does when John is not around. 

-x-  
  


Sherlock is thinking. He lies on the couch, hands together in front of his lips as though in prayer, and thinks. 

Currently, he is thinking about blood. It’s not a subject that he usually dwells on. Upon his initial change from regular human to vampire, he’d been virtually unable to think of anything else. Blood – rich, sweet, life-giving blood – had consumed him as surely as he had consumed it. While it may have been strictly impressed upon him – by Mycroft and mother both – that he was not to kill his food, he had still been wild, and there had been incidents where he’d been unable to stop himself drinking in time. 

Even when he’d gotten it under control to the point where he no longer killed unintentionally, some nights he’d gone through four or five young men or women – enticed into back alleys with whispered half promises and left to awaken confused and alone – before he’d felt sated. This, fortunately, had dissipated with age. Then he had discovered cocaine. He’d injected it, yes, but his favourite method of achieving that high had been to drink from those who had already partaken themselves. Mycroft had been appalled. Sherlock hadn’t cared. That is, until he’d discovered crime scenes. Finally, something had been enough to pull him away from the edge of destruction. 

Since getting clean, he hasn’t drunk blood from a living, breathing human being. It’s too intimate, makes him feel too vulnerable, too open to another person. He’s fine with bagged blood. It may not be exactly the same – hot and alive and being pumped into his mouth by another’s heartbeat – but it is so much simpler. 

Or, it was, until one Doctor John Watson had shown up in the lab at St. Bart’s, eyes smiling at Sherlock’s deductions and limp tugging at his sense of curiosity. It had taken several months for him to realise that what he felt for John was not simple filial affection. Frustrating, that he had been so blind to himself, but understandable, considering how his romantic history was nothing more than a blip in the early 1900s. There’s no mistaking it now, though, and this is not something that Sherlock is pleased with. 

Loving John is dangerous. For John, and so by extension for Sherlock. The vampire has it within him to take absolutely everything from the man, to drain him dry – both literally and figuratively – and leave him an empty husk, and that would destroy Sherlock more completely than any stake to the heart. The memory of last night teases at the edges of Sherlock’s mind. 

He’d woken with the warm, solid weight of John’s arm around him, after apparently having migrated towards the centre of the bed while sleeping. It had been bliss, for all of eight seconds. Then he had inhaled. 

Thirst had hit him like a tidal wave. The entire room smelled of John and Sherlock, he could taste it on his tongue, and the combination had set his head spinning. He had frozen, afraid to move lest it end with him burying his nose into the curve between John’s neck and shoulder and sinking his fangs in, letting that mouth-watering scent roll over his tongue as he drank in long, languid pulls... He’d shot up and out of the bed so fast that it had made him dizzy. He’d needed to get away, to feed, to clear the taste of _John_ from his head before everything was ruined. 

He’d been so intent on eliminating any possible trace of thirst that he hadn’t even heard John padding down the stairs, hadn’t even had the chance to remove the blood bag from his mouth. He knows how it must have looked – disgusting and freakish – but John, who puts up with toes in the microwave and spleen in the freezer, had treated the situation with such _normalcy_ that Sherlock couldn’t help but love him all the more. 

Sherlock peers up at the ceiling, absent-mindedly noting that the water damage from two years ago has not worsened; the roof has been fixed. He needs to get over this attraction – as though that word is adequate – that he feels for John. They are both much safer as friends and nothing more. Sherlock has no idea how to have a relationship. He does not give; he takes. Even if John felt the same way for Sherlock, it would still be a terrible idea. So he thinks, and makes a decision. He will continue keeping John at arm’s length. It will be better for both of them. 

By the time John returns from the shops, Sherlock has a plan, and is much more at peace when John greets him by saying, 

“I wasn’t sure which flavour of human flesh analogue you’d prefer. I hope lime is okay. It’s not human-coloured, but if there’s going to be leftovers I’d rather it be in a flavour I can tolerate.” A smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and he wills it back down. 

“It doesn’t matter. Leave it on the counter. I’ll be in my room. Don’t disturb me,” he answers coolly. He swiftly retreats to his bedroom, if only to escape the kicked-puppy look in John’s eyes at the sudden icy treatment. _It’s for the best,_ he tells himself again, _you will get over this, and then everything can be as it was before._

He only wishes that he could actually believe himself. 

-x-  
  


It is another week before Lestrade comes to them with a case. Sherlock is going so stir crazy by this point that he accepts without even asking what the case is about. John isn't sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but really, any sort of change is better than the tight, withdrawn state Sherlock has been in for the past six days. When they pull up at New Scotland Yard, however, Sherlock's excitement starts shining through, and John finds himself looking forward to being part of their first case in almost two years. Sherlock sweeps through the doors in his usually dramatic fashion, and heads straight for Lestrade's new office. How he knows which is Lestrade's office is anyone's guess. _Maybe it's a smell thing?_ John wonders. _Mind you, he’d probably be able to figure it out blindfolded and wearing nose plugs._ _God knows his crime solving abilities are advanced enough without adding "bloodhound" to his list of talents_. John giggles inwardly at the accidental pun. 

“For the love of god, Lestrade, please let it be something interesting!” Sherlock says by way of greeting, flinging himself into the chair opposite the DI’s desk. 

“Well, it’s not homicide,” Greg starts. Sherlock groans as though he’s a ten year old being told to do his homework. “Oh shut up, you’re still on probation as far as most people are concerned. You’re lucky they’re letting me give you anything at all!” 

“And he’s very grateful,” John says, eyeing Sherlock meaningfully. This earns nothing more than an indignant harrumph. Lestrade rolls his eyes. 

“It’s a blackmail case. I’m assuming you’ve never heard of Mackenzie Ellis?” John shakes his head, and Sherlock looks blank. “She’s the head partner of Ellis, Jameson and Whitney. Huge law firm. She’s loaded. About four months ago, she and her husband started getting emails sent from temporary addresses. IP blocked, encrypted, you name it. They’re impossible to trace.” 

“Let me guess, shady secret in her past?” Sherlock asks. 

“His. But yeah. He, ah... porn,” Lestrade answers, looking vaguely uncomfortable. 

“Did the emails contain proof that the blackmailers actually _have_ the incriminating evidence?” Lestrade hands over a thin folder instead of speaking. John peers at its contents over Sherlock’s shoulder. There are several slightly-blurred stills from a video. In them, a young man is bound and gagged, nude save for the ropes crisscrossing his torso. One photograph shows the same young man, without the gag, being penetrated from behind by another man. His mouth is open in a shout, and his expression is... erotic. They’re definitely not subtle pornography. 

“Gay porn,” John says, “But now he’s with a woman.” 

“Very astute, John,” Sherlock drawls. 

“You can see why it’s a bit of an issue, if this gets out. Mrs. Ellis runs in some very exclusive and judgemental circles,” Lestrade says. 

“I’m assuming they’ve already tried paying the blackmailers?” Sherlock asks, standing to pace, but not waiting for an answer. “They can afford it. She’s pulling in seven figures a year. What does he do?” Lestrade looks unimpressed by Mr. Ellis as he says, 

“He doesn’t do much of anything. Started three businesses in the past four years - diving instructor, yoga teacher, private dance lessons - and abandoned them all after about four months. And yeah, they’ve tried paying. They were already out £120 000 before they came to the police.” Sherlock nods sharply. 

“Do you have any more recent pictures? Possibly with both him and Mrs. Ellis together?” Lestrade sits at his desk and searches on the internet until he brings up a photograph from some sort of charity benefit. The man in the picture is definitely the one from the video, though a handful of years older. He’s young and handsome in a well-cut tuxedo, with cleanly styled blond hair and steely grey eyes. The woman is at least a decade his senior, sharp and angular, her hair an obviously-fake shade of red. She’s holding on to her husband’s arm in a way that makes John think of dogs on leashes. They don’t really look happy, but John doesn’t need anyone to tell him that looks can be deceiving. Perhaps that simply hadn’t been a good night for them. 

“Thank you Lestrade, I have everything that I need. I’ll be in touch,” Sherlock calls, already striding out of the room. John gives Greg a puzzled, apologetic shrug, and hurries out to follow his friend. By the time he catches up, Sherlock is already hailing a cab. 

“So, where should we start?” John asks as they slide into the back seat, “Do you want to interview the couple or-” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need to interview anyone,” Sherlock cuts him off, “It’s obviously the husband who’s doing the blackmailing. He’s going to leave her, but wants money to continue his lifestyle of choice. Honestly, I’m disappointed that Lestrade hasn’t figured it out already.” 

“Wait, what? Why didn’t you just tell him?” 

“Honestly, John. Sometimes I’m concerned for your brain cells. They must be so lonely with just the two of them rattling around in that head of yours.” John bristles. He’s had quite enough of Sherlock’s biting verbal abuse over the past week. 

“That is uncalled for! Just because I can’t understand why you’re being a colossal prat-” 

“Three reasons!” Sherlock interrupts again, “One, this case is a test, to see if I can be a good little consulting detective and figure it all out while following proper procedure before they bring me back in for the _real_ crimes. Two, I’ll need actual proof that it’s the husband, because of reason one, which I need to find first. And three,” he turns to John and grins, “While Lestrade was finding that picture for me, I swiped another case file from the cabinet. Fancy joining me while I look into a human trafficking ring?” His eyes glint mischievously. 

“Are you... are you serious? Sherlock! This is a probationary case! It’s not exactly going to get you back in on the Met’s good side if you go stealing case files and running off into investigations you haven’t been invited to!” This earns the patented “stop being such an idiot” Sherlock Holmes stare. 

“It _will_ get me ‘back in on the Met’s good side’ if I solve not only a blackmail case, but also bring down a large organised crime ring. They love being able to say they’ve stopped human trafficking. It makes for excellent press. Besides, don’t you think it’s a good idea to stop the criminals before more innocent people are pressed into slavery?” John sighs. It’s really no use arguing with him, especially when he appeals to the doctor’s compassion and human decency. 

“Alright, fine. We’ll look into the other case. But honestly Sherlock, you need to give Greg some credit. He’s not stupid. I’m sure he’s given you the blackmail case because he _knows_ who’s doing it, but wanted to give you a chance to prove to the higher ups that you’re still a bloody genius.” Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment before speaking. 

“I suppose that’s true. remind me to thank him when we see him again. Now, quiet, I need to think about the _real_ case.” John sighs, trying to ignore his own injury at being treated like a complete moron. _Same old Sherlock._ This, he hasn’t missed. 

The taxi pulls up at the flat, and they disembark. Sherlock is already on the couch with a laptop by the time John makes it up the stairs. 

“You really are fast,” he says, before catching sight of _whose_ laptop it is that Sherlock is using, “Hey! You have your own computer! Leave mine alone!” 

“Yes, I do, but yours was closer. Make some tea, would you? This may take a while.” John is about to ask exactly _what_ may take a while, when he hears some very distinctive noises coming from his laptop’s speakers; specifically, moaning, grunting, and skin slapping against skin. 

“Sherlock, what the fuck? Are you watching gay porn on _my_ laptop?” This garners a withering look. 

“No, I’m playing football. Idiocy doesn’t suit you John, I suggest you avoid it. And I’m not _watching,_ I’m _examining._ ” 

“Because that’s a huge difference. Any particular reason you’re _examining_ pornography in our living room?” He does his best not to listen to the low voices murmuring filthy words on the screen. 

“Did you see the stills in the Ellis file? Those weren’t taken from a screenshot on a computer. Those are stills from an original copy. I need to find the website that produced the video, and find who’s helping Mr. Ellis blackmail his wife.” Sherlock’s eyes remain fixed on the screen, though by the sounds of things, he’s switched to a different video. 

“So, what, you’re going to surf around on seedy websites until you stumble across the right film?” Sherlock sighs. 

“There was a watermark, John. Lower left hand corner of the screen captures. I just need to find the site with the same logo. Now, why is the tea taking so long?” John throws his hands up, giving in. 

“Fine, whatever, just... turn the volume down at least. There are some things a person shouldn’t have to listen to while eating lunch.” With that, he sets about making tea, and studiously ignoring the lithe, striking vampire watching porn in the living room. _My life is so far from normal that it’s in a different time zone._ He uses the afternoon to contemplate what has made Sherlock so much grumpier than usual, and, after retrieving his now no-doubt virus laden computer, updating his CV. 

By the time dinner rolls around, Sherlock has retreated to his bedroom, and John is left alone in from on the telly, where the comfortable armchair and soft sounds of evening talk shows lull him to sleep. When he wakens, just before 11, the TV is off, and the wool blanket from the back of the couch has been draped over him. He smiles, and heads upstairs to bed. 


	4. Incommunicado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock is going to be in so much trouble when John finds out that he's run off without backup and gotten himself kidnapped."
> 
> Sherlock does something rather stupid. John, as usual, is left to attempt a rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! Thank you for the kudos I've gotten, they make me very happy! Please excuse any and all spelling, grammatical, or English-English errors, as this is neither Beta'd nor Brit-picked.  
> Comments are always appreciated!

John wakes up to an empty flat. This is not a new development, as Sherlock is never one to announce his comings and goings, so John doesn't think much of it. That is, until tea time rolls around and he still has seen neither hide nor hair of the consulting detective. He sends out a quick text: 

**Where are you?**

He hopes it doesn't sound too needy. He doesn't mean to come across like a clingy parent, but the last time Sherlock had buggered off without any sort of contact, he'd turned up dead. John's throat clenches and he tries to distract himself with his book. After what feels like an age, but is really only ten minutes, his phone chirps at him. 

_Found a lead for the human trafficking case. Will text if I require assistance. SH_

John smiles in equal parts relief and mirth. The fact that Sherlock finds it necessary to sign all of his texts never fails to amuse. 

**OK. Stay safe.**

He doesn't receive a reply, but he wasn't really expecting one. He turns his attention back to his book. 

Dinner rolls by, and then sunset, and then it's almost midnight and John still hasn't heard anything more from Sherlock. _He said he'd text if he needed help,_ the rational part of his brain supplies. _Since when is Sherlock any good at judging when he needs help?_ The less helpful part of him answers. He chews on his bottom lip, and sends another message. 

**Going to bed. Still okay?**

He brings the phone into the bathroom while he gets ready for bed, and then places it on the nightstand, in easy reach. He leaves the ringer on, just in case. He's still waiting for a reply when sleep drags him under. 

-x- 

Sherlock is going to be in so much trouble when John finds out that he's run off without backup and gotten himself kidnapped. Honestly, it's embarrassing. He's furious with himself for not having seen it coming. One moment he'd been sneaking around the back of an old, out-of-commission British Leyland parts factory, the next he'd been injected with some sort of barbiturate and hauled into the back of a van. It's all a bit of a blur after that, until he'd woken up on a cold cement floor, hands cuffed behind his back, feet bound with rope and tied to a concrete pillar, mouth covered with gaffer tape. 

He seems to be alone in the basement of whatever building he's been taken to, so he takes the opportunity to test the quality of the handcuffs. Even pulling with the entirety of his strength, he can't get the chain to give. This could be real trouble. Either these criminals just happen to be using high-end materials for their kidnapping enterprise, or someone knows what he is, and has taken proper precautions against vampires. The ropes around his feet are similar, well-made, well-tied, and attached to the one thing in the basement that even he can't break. 

Having determined escape by brute force to be out, Sherlock takes stock of the room where he's being kept. It seems to be a basement of an old house. The floor is cement, sloped towards a drain in the middle, and there is one very small window high up on the wall in front of him, greyed out with soot. From what he can see, other than himself, the room is empty. _Okay, nothing helpful in the environment. How about in what I have on me?_

Sherlock knows better than to go out after London's criminal classes without anything by way of self defence, and hopefully whoever's taken him has missed at least one of the small knives, paper clips, or other useful devices hidden on his person. He's lost his coat - _damn damn double damn_ \- and his pockets have been emptied, but - _ah ha! They always miss the underwear._ Sewn into the elastic of his pants is a paper clip. It's not a knife or his mobile phone - also taken - but it's something. He sets about picking the lock behind his back. 

His progress, what little he's had, is interrupted by the sound of footsteps above him. He quickly pulls the unbent paperclip from the handcuffs' lock and shoves it into the waistband of his underwear. It's uncomfortable, but it'll do as long as they don't make him walk for any great distance. The door at the top of the stairs clicks open, and two men descend. Immediately, Sherlock can smell that one of them is a vampire. 

"Well well well, Sherlock Holmes," a faintly-accented voice drawls, "I heard you were dead!" The man who's speaking comes into view. He's tall, at least a hand taller than Sherlock, and looks like the poster boy for Aryanism. Even his haircut screams Nazi. It's entirely possible that's exactly what he is, as he is the vampire of the pair. The other man, smaller, weasely, and entirely forgettable, is human. Sherlock, unable to speak around the tape, settles for a scathing glare. This only makes the other vampire laugh. "Well, obviously I was misinformed! I'm Frederic. You're terrible for business, you know. People find out you're coming after my operation, they're going to get spooked, stop buying my product. Terrified that the Holmes clan will come after them." 

It all clicks in Sherlock's mind - the human trafficking, the steady importation of people, the business run by a vampire, clients afraid of the "Holmes clan". This is not a sex slavery operation. These people are being bought by vampires. They are food. He continues glaring at Frederic. 

"Quite the look you can give, eh?" Frederic jeers, "Well, I have far better things to do than keep watch over the likes of you. Petyr here is going to make sure you don't cause any trouble with my latest shipment while I relocate our base of operations. Then I'm going to cash in on the very expensive bounty on your pretty head." Sherlock's eyes widen imperceptibly. _Who's placed a bounty on my head?_ Unfortunately no answer is forthcoming. 

"Have an excellent stay, Mr. Holmes," Frederic drawls, turning back up the stairs, "I should be back before you go _completely_ mad with hunger. Petyr and his... associates will ensure you don't get out to make trouble. They have plenty of relevant experience. Farewell!" The door to the basement closes, and Sherlock is left alone with Petyr. 

"I hear blood starvation is awfully unpleasant," Petyr murmurs. Sherlock does his best to keep his expression schooled into one of aloof distaste. It's true. Two days without feeding can be relatively unpleasant. Any more than four and his body will start attacking itself - a very painful process. "Well, you just stay cozy down here. Maybe there'll be some rats for you to snack on if you're lucky. Don't bother with the window. Reinforced steel bars on the outside. Not even your kind can get through those. My men and I will be at the top of the stairs. Please give us an excuse to shoot you. I love a good firefight." With that, he turns and follows his employer, leaving Sherlock alone once again. 

-x- 

When John wakes up, his first action is to check his phone. Nothing. No missed calls, and no text messages. His stomach does an unpleasant flipflop. He makes his way downstairs swiftly, and does a thorough once over of the flat. Sherlock is not there, nor are there any signs that he's been home and then left again while John slept. He fires off a text to Lestrade. 

**Haven't heard from Sherlock for over 16 hours. He contacted you?**

He receives a prompt and unhelpful reply. 

_**No. Probably just out on a lead and lost track of time. You know how he is.**_

This is true. John does know how he is, which is precisely why he is now worried. The man has next to no self-preservation instinct, and a habit of attracting the attention of every murderer in the northern hemisphere. He decides to try looking for some clues on Sherlock's computer. 

Breaking into the detective's laptop proves to be extremely difficult. Impossible, in fact. Unlike John, Sherlock uses passwords that in no way resemble recognizable words or familiar numbers. John spends half an hour googling "how to find out a computer password" before giving up. His tech skills are mediocre at best, and the fact that he thought even for a moment that he'd be able to guess Sherlock's password is laughable. He glances at the clock - 13:00. It has now been forty two hours since he last saw his flatmate, and twenty one since hearing from him. He chews his lip, and sends another text to Sherlock. 

**Starting to get worried. U OK? Pls answer.**

He paces for several minutes, showers, and then fails miserably at distracting himself with television. When 14:00 rolls around, he caves, and calls Lestrade. The Detective Inspector answers after the second ring. 

_"John? Everything okay?"_

"It's been over forty three hours since I've seen Sherlock. He hasn't texted me back since tea time yesterday. I'm starting to feel a little more than just worried." 

_"He's investigating a blackmail case, how much trouble can he have possibly gotten himself into?"_ John cringes. 

"Er, yeah. About that. He took a file from your office, while we were there. Something about human trafficking." Lestrade swears, and John thinks he heard the sound of something being flung against a wall - possibly a stapler? 

_"Shit! That great bloody idiot. Of course he took the Sekorski file. Fuck. Can't just leave anything bloody well alone, can he? Alright, I'll pull up any leads we have. You stay put. I don't need to be tracking down_ both _of you. I'll call once I have something."_

John thanks Greg, and apologises for Sherlock being a wanker, and hangs up. Then he texts Mycroft. 

**Sherlock missing, ~20 hours. Investigating Sekorski human trafficking. Mobile phone GPS?**

The answer is nearly instantaneous. 

_Will call when I have something. -MH_

-x- 

Sherlock feels like complete shit. He's been lying on a hard floor for far too long, it has been forty seven hours since he last fed, and his body is starting to make its displeasure very clear. He should have eaten before leaving the flat, but he'd been so caught up in the case and trying to keep John at arm's length that he'd neglected his own needs, and now he was paying the price. His hands are still stuck in the cuffs. The paper clip was discovered by one of Petyr's associates when they came down to check over his bonds. This had been followed by an extremely unpleasant beating, wherein a steel-toed boot had cracked his fourth rib, and his hands had only been saved from multiple breaks by him rolling up against the concrete pillar to which he is tied. 

His body had used the last of its reserves healing himself, and now his abdomen is cramping. His muscles feel as though he's trying to run a marathon while holding his breath. It's starting to look like he'll have to break the bones of one of his hands to get free. He was really hoping it wouldn't come to that, as it will be extremely painful, and temporarily put one of his hands out of commission, meaning that he'll have one more disadvantage when trying to take down the four armed thugs at the top of the stairs. He's just preparing himself to smash his hand against the cement floor when there's the sound of a lock opening, and the door to the upper floor opens. It's Steel-toed Boots, and he descends the stairs to stand in front of Sherlock. 

"Your phone keeps beepin' at us. You got someone checkin' in on ya? Wouldn’t do to have ‘em thinkin’ you’re in trouble. Best you be tellin' us the unlock code, unless you fancy a busted nose t'add to that rib o' yours." _Someone checking in on me?_ _John! Of course, beautiful, clever, worrywart John. If anyone can find me, it's him._ Sherlock glares at the testament to the dangers of inbreeding standing in front of him. It takes a full twenty seconds for Boots to realise that Sherlock can't give any sort of code with tape over his mouth. It is summarily ripped from his face without any warning. He hisses at the sharp pain, and his fangs descend entirely of their own accord. "You keep your pointy bits t'yerself an' I won't have to break nothin'." 

“Anything,” Sherlock quips before he can stop himself. 

“What?” 

“You won’t have to break _anything._ If you don’t have to break _nothing_ then you have to break _something._ ” Boots looks confused for a moment, and then quickly switches to angry. A steel toe meets Sherlock’s side, causing him to wince. 

“The code for your bleedin’ phone!” Sherlock thinks quickly. There are, in an idea taken from Irene, two codes for his phone. The difference is, instead of one to unlock it and one to wipe it clean, there is one to unlock it and one to send up a signal flare on his GPS. Thank goodness the kidnappers were too dull-witted to simply remove the phone’s battery or toss it in the Thames. The only question is, will Boots here be gullible enough to believe that Sherlock would give up his code on the first try, or will he have to pretend to resist until pain is brought into the picture? Unfortunately, he decides, it was going to have to be the latter. 

“If you think I’m just going to let you know how to tell my backup that they’re not needed, you’re even dumber than I thought.” The thug’s eyes gleam with delight. 

“Then I get t’put the boots t’ya,” he sneers. Sherlock braces himself. 

The three kicks are hard, smarting against his already injured ribs. The third one lands right in his gut, making him retch. Boots is looks pleased. 

“The code?” Sherlock tries to catch his breath, but is delivered two more swift blows to his thigh and his sternum. He curls his legs up to protect himself as best he can. 

“Okay! Okay!” he coughs, “Enough!” Boots is smiling unpleasantly. “564649.” It’s an easy code to remember, spelling out “JOHNHW”. This is not for sentimental reasons (he tells himself unconvincingly). His actual phone code, changed weekly, is a random string of ten numbers from a base 7 system. This code is simple for John’s benefit, in case he should be required to put it to use. Boots is frowning, brow furrowed in concentration, and his lips are moving as he repeats the code to himself. If Sherlock hadn’t been trying to keep his kidneys from flying out of his mouth, he would have laughed. The moron sprints up the stairs, still repeating the code over and over, and Sherlock is left alone again. 

The code will flash the signal out, and then unlock a separate, limited profile side loaded into the phone. Hopefully John will get here before the armed goons upstairs realise what’s happened and turn Sherlock into bloody pulp. 

Now all there is to do is wait. 

-x- 

John is waiting for Mycroft when his phone pings. His heart rate instantly ratchets up, and he fumbles for a moment before managing to unlock the screen. There are no new text messages, but the little flashing symbol in the notification bar makes his mouth go dry. It’s the custom program that Sherlock wrote. Mycroft and Lestrade will have been notified as well. John opens the program, and is greeted by a map of... _Swindon? How on earth has he ended up in Swindon?_ Regardless, he now has a location, and confirmation that Sherlock is indeed in trouble, and not just ignoring him. The little GPS pinpoint shows a residential area not too far from an industrial complex. His phone rings. 

“You got the same message, I take it?” he says by way of greeting. Lestrade sounds sleep deprived on the other end. 

“ _Yeah, I got it. The hell’s he doing in Swindon?”_

“Bugger if I know. You mobilizing a team, or is it just me and whoever Mycroft shows up with?” 

“ _I can’t call in anyone. This isn’t really an official... well, anything. I’m coming with though. Damned if that crazy bastard’s going to disappear again if I can help it.”_ John smiles. 

“Swing ‘round and pick me up. I’ll be downstairs.” Lestrade confirms, and they both hang up. John's phone pings again with a text message. It's from Sherlock's phone. 

_Bsy. Lve me alone._

Whoever is texting John is most certainly not Sherlock. Terrible short forms aside, they haven't signed the message, and haven't called off the GPS flare. This confirms what John was already fairly certain of - Sherlock's been kidnapped. Again. _Honestly, I should implant him with a tracking tag like they give to wolves._

John knows exactly how long it’ll take Greg to get to Baker Street, and it’s just enough time to gather what he’ll need. He shrugs out of his plaid button-up and pulls on a dark, long-sleeved t-shirt. He grabs his boots - sturdy and dependable - from the back of the closet, and pulls down his rucksack. His Browning gets tucked into the back of his trousers. Next stop is the washroom, where he shoves basic first-aid supplies into his bag. Sherlock may be a vampire, but John’s seen him bleed, and knows that a bad injury can still put him down for the count. All of this taken care of, he heads downstairs to wait for Lestrade. They have a consulting detective to rescue. 

-x- 

As expected, the men in charge of keeping Sherlock captive are not satisfied with just sitting around and waiting for Frederic to return. He's actually surprised that it's taken this long for them to come down for a round of "Torment the Prisoner". Petyr has made a second appearance, and Boots brings along a friend, who Sherlock has dubbed “Steroids”, based on the absurd circumference of his arms and the shrunken mass of his brain. 

“Think you’re clever, eh leach?” Petyr growls at him. _Oh, excellent, we’ve moved into the vaguely insulting slurs part of the evening._ “Do you know what they're gonna do to you after we've turned you in for the bounty? Know what’s waiting for you once the shipment’s done?” 

“A good meal and a hot shower?” He can’t seem to resist antagonizing these idiots. Petyr grins, baring his teeth. 

“A steel coffin and a deep hole,” he hisses. Sherlock’s brain whirls. That would be extremely unpleasant, to say the least. Buried underground with no way out, he would slowly starve to death, his body attacking itself in an effort to find sustenance. It could take weeks to die that way, and he would go completely mad before it was through. 

He’s only met one person who was saved from Live Burial, a young woman with a beautiful face and wide, wild eyes. She had been buried for two weeks before Sherlock’s investigation had uncovered her whereabouts. She had almost looked like a corpse when they’d gotten her out, and had been completely incoherent. The last Sherlock's heard of her she's still living in her brother's care, afraid to be alone, and hasn’t spoken in almost a decade. Sherlock would really prefer not to suffer the same fate. His disquiet must be showing on his face, as Petyr adds, 

“Don’t like the idea of that, you do? Nobody’ll ever find you. They’ll think you’re dead.” At this, Sherlock’s heart jumps. He can’t do that to John. Not again. He’s seen what a year and a half of thinking Sherlock was dead did to his friend. He can see it in the nightmares, and the new wrinkles in his forehead, in the way he always looks at Sherlock, as though he still can’t quite believe he’s there. Sherlock cannot, simply _cannot,_ put John through another death, another funeral, another round of unanswered questions. It would break him. Petyr is talking again. 

“Gag him again. We need to get ready to move once Freddy gets back,” he sneers at Sherlock again, “I’ll see you later. Enjoy the fresh air while you can.” 

A fresh strip of tape - the very sticky kind that will be painful to remove - is placed over his mouth, and he’s left alone again. This time he’s not content to wait. He pulls himself up to a seated position, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Then he brings his weight down on his left hand and breaks the first metacarpal. The pain is extraordinary. He may have blacked out for a moment, but he’s certain he stayed silent. He pulls his throbbing hand free of the cuffs, pulling a breath through his teeth as the metal drags against the broken thumb. Once that’s done, he sets the bone into the proper place so that his body's fast healing can get to work. The tape over his mouth is the only thing that prevents a shout of pain from escaping, and he can feel sweat beading on his forehead. 

Once his thumb is roughly splinted with strips torn from his shirt, he peels off the tape from his face, doing his best not to bring any skin with it, then he sets to work on the rope around his feet. The knots are remarkably clever - there’s an ex-sailor in Petyr’s crew - and his now-swollen, aching thumb is not making things any easier. It takes almost fifteen minutes before he manages to get the rope loose enough to pull his feet out, and then he spends another ten rubbing feeling back into them. _Fabulous, they’ve taken my shoes._

Once free, he sets to coming up with a brilliant plan. He has no idea how far from London they are, but is fairly certain that he hadn’t been unconscious for more than two hours. That gives him plenty of time to come up with strategies for each possible rescue scenario, but also gives the idiots upstairs plenty of time to decide that it’s time to deliver him to the people who want to bury him in a steel box, so he sets about coming up with a plan for that scenario as well. The handcuffs are discarded as useless. He has nothing with which to unlock them, and they aren’t of significant size or weight to be used as a weapon. The rope, however, could come in handy. He unties it from around the pillar, cursing his thumb the whole time, coils it up, and loops it through a belt loop. _Wonderful, they’ve taken my belt._

The rest of the basement is rather unhelpful. There are no convenient pipes or wooden beams to use as weapons. He finds an old sink that he hadn’t been able to see while tied up, and carefully turns the tap until a trickle of water comes out. It takes several minutes to get enough water to quench some of the human thirst that he feels, as turning the tap up too high may alert the house’s other occupants to the fact that their captive isn’t quite so captive as he was earlier. It does nothing to quench the aching, clawing thirst of a more sinister nature that is throbbing through him. He imagines that he can almost smell the blood of his captors from where he is. His fangs, embarrassingly, refuse to retract. 

He distracts himself by continuing the search through the basement. There are several rags that may once have been someone’s shirt, shoved into a corner. These give him an idea, and he quickly begins putting his plan into motion. He only hopes that John gets there in time for it to actually be of any use. 

-x- 

John is aware that he’s driving Lestrade around the bend. He oscillates between preternatural stillness and restless, leg-jiggling agitation, and Greg keeps glancing over at him from the driver’s side of the vehicle. He can’t help it, though. All that he can think about is Sherlock, all alone, in trouble. It makes him feel ill, and it’s all too terribly familiar. Even with Moriarty dead, John can’t keep the dread from spreading like ice through his veins. By the time their car turns onto the main road off of which the GPS signal had flared, he’s practically twitching. 

“For god’s sake, John. Do you need to stay in the car? You’re more jittery than I am after six coffees!” John swallows and tries to hold himself still, but it’s rather like trying not to think of polar bears after being instructed not to think of polar bears. 

“I’m fine. I’m just worried, is all.” Greg gives him a raised eyebrow. 

“Right, like how the Nile is just a river in Egypt.” John scowls, but has to concede that he has a point. “So, how do we figure out which of these rundown old houses Sherlock’s in? Mobile GPS can only get us so far. Got any ideas?” John chews at his lower lip for a moment before answering, putting the skills learned from Sherlock to use. 

“Well, he’ll be in a basement, most likely. They wouldn’t want to keep him in a room with large windows. We should look for a house that looks like it’s lived in, but not cared for. Do you know what I mean?” Lestrade nods. 

“I think so.” They reach the turn-off, and start driving down the street marked on the map. It’s just past dusk, and is dark enough that the car isn’t immediately noticeable. Greg turns the car’s headlamps off, and slows to a crawl. They both swivel their heads from side to side, looking for some sort of clue as to which house is the right one. John’s phone beeps. 

_Extraction team enroute. ETA 20 minutes. Afraid that’s the fastest I can manage. - MH_

John sighs, and shows the text to Lestrade, who echoes the same sentiment. They’re on their own for now. The phone buzzes again. 

_Careful of Sherlock. He hasn’t fed for at least 36 hours. - MH_

John shivers a little. A hungry vampire is not on the top of the list of Things About Sherlock John Knows How to Deal With. Stroppy Sherlock? Sure. Bored Sherlock? More or less. Manic, experiment-happy Sherlock? No problem. Hungry vampire Sherlock? That one’s new. _Ah well, cross that bridge when I come to it._ He’s just starting to wonder how much a vampire bite would hurt when something catches his eye. He hisses as Greg to stop, and the car comes to a halt. 

“There, do you see that?” He points to the little basement window down the side of a particularly drab little house. There are iron bars over the window, installed for the purpose of keeping unwelcome people out. It’s hard to tell from here, but the window appears to be broken, and, tied around the bars like a flag, just visible in the dim light, is a black suit jacket. John smiles. 

“Clever bastard,” Greg breathes with a smile of his own, “So, how do you propose we get in there?” John takes in what he can see from the car, which Lestrade has parked across the street from the target house. There are recent tyre-tracks in the gravel drive, but no vehicle present at the moment. There are, however, lights on in two of the windows on the main floor. 

“Don’t suppose you fancy waiting till it’s pitch-dark and then sneaking around the back, eh?” Lestrade asks. John shakes his head. 

“Sherlock’s been in there for at least 24 hours, if not more. I’m not leaving him in there any longer than is absolutely necessary.” Greg sighs. 

“Alright, fair enough. How about you go around through the neighbour’s back garden, and see if there’s a way in through the back. I’ll try to get close enough to see what we’re up against.” The Detective Inspector hesitates for a moment, then pulls his gun out of his holster. “I really don’t feel comfortable lending this to a civilian,” he starts. John doesn’t let him finish. 

“Then don’t.” He pulls the Browning free from his waistband and checks it over quickly, chambering a round. Lestrade’s eyes widen, then dart away. 

“If anyone asks, I didn’t see that.” John nods his silent thanks, and then slips out of the car. _Hang on you mad genius. I'm on my way._


	5. Rescue and Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John heads in to rescue Sherlock, but gets more than he bargained for.
> 
> "Sherlock is staring at John, eyes wide, pupils swallowing up all but the smallest sliver of pale iris, nostrils flaring."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the actual first chapter that I wrote! I hope that it's up to snuff.  
> Thank you to everyone who's left Kudos and comments! They mean a lot!
> 
> A/N: Also, I would like to dedicate this chapter to the Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers. When I picked Swindon as the location for this chapter, I was literally just on Google maps looking for somewhere sufficiently far from London (so apologies if you've actually been there and the place I'm describing can't possibly exist). It wasn't until after I'd written the previous chapter that I realized I'd chosen the hometown of my favourite pixelated football team. DFTBA!

The first part of John’s plan is to alert Sherlock to his presence. This is accomplished easily enough. While he’s not sure if Sherlock will be unsupervised in the basement where he’s being kept, he is fairly certain that the detective will be the only one to notice his signal. The first step is, of course, to sneak up to the house and get close to the basement window, where Sherlock’s suit jacket is still tied. 

He walks purposefully down the street, leaving Greg at the car to watch the front of the house and, hopefully, point Mycroft’s extraction team in the right direction (when they arrive). John tries to look as though he is supposed to be there. It’s a trick learned from Sherlock. Stealth has its place, but sometimes hiding in plain sight is the best way to go unnoticed. He easily makes it to the far side of the house one over from his target, and then steps into the shadows and slinks into the backyard. There’s a children’s swing set, and a little patio with a weather-worn bench. It’s deserted, the evening air too chilly for anyone to be out playing. Still, he’s careful as he creeps through to the fence separating this yard from the one on the other side. It wouldn’t do to be caught before he’s even made it to the right house. 

The next obstacle is the fence itself. John’s not the tallest of men, he knows, but he’d run through the dreadful army training course more than he likes to remember, and his time gallivanting around with a mad detective has ensured that he’s no stranger to vaulting over barriers. He jumps, bracing his arms on the top of the fence, and hauls himself over, letting out only a soft “oof” as he hits the ground on the other side. He crouches, and takes stock of his surroundings. 

This backyard is obviously unused. The lawn is unkempt, and there are no pieces of outdoor furniture or decorations. John can see the little basement window up the side of the house, and he makes his way towards it, careful to stick to the shadows provided by the fence. He smiles. _God, I’ve missed this mad running about. I’d rather not think about what that says for my sanity._ Once within range, he makes a nearly-inaudible hissing noise, followed by a soft bird call. It’s an old army signal, one that he and Sherlock had established within the first six months of their acquaintance, following an incident where John, tied up and blindfolded, had nearly shot Sherlock in the head when the detective had come to rescue him. This had led to two rules: 1) Don’t sneak up on John, especially when he’s armed and 2) Use the signal to indicate your presence when making any sort of unexpected rescue. 

_I get kidnapped far more often than is healthy,_ John thinks to himself, _maybe I should get_ myself _one of those GPS tracking tags._ After a moment of silence, he crawls forward to the window and, being careful to stay out of sight of anyone who’d be inside, unties Sherlock’s jacket, removing it from the bars and stuffing it into his pack. That, plus their auditory signal, should be more than enough warning for Sherlock. He turns and duckwalks to the little stone patio in the back, where weeds are growing up through cracks in the pavement. A cement step leads up to a door, and John can see light filtering out from the window. He has to chance a quick peek to see what he’s up against. 

He pops his head up so quickly that someone inside would have to be staring directly at the right spot to register his presence. It’s long enough for him to take stock of the inside of the house. The door leads directly into the tiny kitchen, and there is one man standing watch, back against the wall, more interested in flinging small birds at pigs on his phone than properly looking out for intruders. Bad news for the kidnappers, good news for John. 

It’s over so quickly that the big oaf doesn’t even have time to cry out. John taps lightly on the window, and Einstein opens the back door to investigate. The moment his head pops out, John grabs, one hand over the man’s mouth and nose, the other around his neck. He hauls the man out the door, sprawling on his backside on the pavement, and holds on, avoiding swinging limbs, until the goon passes out. A quick job with zipties, and a text to Lestrade, and John leaves the unconscious man bound and gagged, trussed up in the backyard like a turkey. The doctor can’t help his pleased grin as he slips inside the house. 

  
-x- 

Sherlock hears the low hiss and soft bird call outside the window, and when he looks up his jacket is gone. _Clever John._ He crouches beside the stairs, ready to attack anyone who comes down once someone realises what’s happening. His teeth positively ache at the idea of getting to drink from someone - anyone. He’ll even take Boots or Steroids right now, he’s so hungry. He shakes his head. _Get ahold of yourself. It’s biology. You can ignore it._ He draws in a steadying breath, and then another, and focuses on listening for whatever’s happening upstairs. 

His powerful hearing lets him pick up sounds that a normal human can’t. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear the buzzing of insects outside the little window, the scuttling of mice in the walls, and - there! Soft footfalls in the vicinity of the back end of the house. He can hear the distinct rubbery tone from John’s boots, and can’t quite hold back his smile. His patience is all but gone now that rescue is imminent. 

Then everything goes to hell. 

There’s a shout from upstairs, and Sherlock can hear the retort of a semi-automatic rifle being fired. The very first thought that screeches through his mind is only one word - _JOHN._ John is up there, being shot at, possibly already shot. Sherlock sprints up the stairs and kicks with all his might against the door, right beside the door knob - the proper way to kick a door down, none of this run and hit it with his shoulder nonsense. It doesn’t so much as budge. 

“Who puts an iron door on the stairs to the _basement?_ ” he wonders aloud, disgruntled. There is more gunfire and then shouting on the other side of the door, closer this time. It goes very quiet for a moment, and then, from the floor above, John’s voice shouts, 

“VATICAN CAMEOS!” Sherlock dives down the stairs, and has just covered his head in the corner when an explosion rips the door right off of its hinges. The room vibrates with the force of the explosion. Whatever John’s used to blast the door in - padlocked three times on the outside, excessive, even to hold a vampire - is powerful. Sherlock feels bits of debris rain down on him, dislodged from the ceiling. _This shirt will definitely need a trip to a_ very _good dry cleaner._ This worry quickly recedes from his mind when a very welcome face appears through the cloud of dust at the top of the stairs. 

“Sherlock! Are you alright?” John is already running down the stairs, and Sherlock can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. Right now, there’s no one he’d rather see than John Watson. 

“Broken hand, at least two cracked ribs, several bruises, nothing major,” he answers while the doctor hurries over to him. 

“Only you would call cracked ribs and a broken hand ‘nothing major’, you daft git,” John huffs. He starts running his hands over Sherlock’s torso, feeling for where the breaks are, discovering how extensive the damage is. “I don’t think you’ve got any internal bleeding. Jesus, did they go at you with a bat or something?” 

“Steel-toed boots,” Sherlock says. He gasps at the flare of pain when John lifts his hand to have a look, and the entire world goes red. 

That _smell_. It’s like bitter chocolate, fresh strawberries, warm sun, and sweet grass, all rolled in with something intangible that makes his fangs positively _ache._ His mind has gone fuzzy, and he can’t figure out what that scent is, or where it’s coming from, just that he _needs_ it. He has to get close to it, to breathe it in, inhale it, revel in it, _consume_ it. He leans in, towards that absolutely mouth-watering aroma - and realises with a horrible start what the cause is. 

John is eyeing Sherlock with a mix of concern and confusion, still holding his broken hand up. John is what Sherlock can smell. There, on his bicep, a thin trickle of blood, barely even a scratch, visible through a tear in his shirt. A bullet had grazed his arm, it wouldn’t even scar, but it’s _terrible_. Sherlock is drowning in need. He can’t think, it’s so strong. All that he can feel is that pull, that hunger, to take John in his arms and bury his face in the smaller man’s neck. To push him up against the wall, and kiss him until they’re both rutting against each other, wanting and breathless, and then drink until John’s legs start to give out, until Sherlock can smell him in his own skin, until - 

He throws himself back, a shout of “NO!” wrenching from his throat, and then he’s across the room, pushing himself as far into the ungiving cement wall as he can, trying desperately to pull his eyes away from the tantalizing pulse beating in John’s throat. 

-x-   
  


Sherlock is staring at John, eyes wide, pupils swallowing up all but the smallest sliver of pale iris, nostrils flaring. 

"Sherlock?" John asks tentatively, leaning forward to move to his friend. Sherlock lets out a whimper, and presses himself back harder against the wall. John leans back. Every muscle in the detective's body is taught, and his fingers are digging into the cement wall at his back. "Sherlock, it's alright. You're alright. Just, calm down." The taller man shakes his head sharply, still not drawing in breath to speak. Realisation dawns in John's mind, and he steps back with a soft "oh", hand flying up to the scratch across his bicep, where the flow of blood is starting to slow. It isn't anywhere near life-threatening, won't even need stitches, but Sherlock's eyes continue to flicker back and forth between the injury and John's face. 

"John..." Sherlock breathes, followed by a strangled moan as he closes his eyes and thumps his head back against the wall. "John, _please_." John isn't sure if Sherlock is asking him to run or for permission. John isn't sure if Sherlock even knows. John takes another step backwards, and his foot crunches down on a piece of plaster flung free by the explosion. Sherlock's eyes fly open, and suddenly it is not John's best friend across the room from him, but a predator, eyes sharp and keen, breathing in a steady stream of no-doubt blood-scented air. John raises his hands as though trying to placate a wounded animal, shuffling another step backwards. Sherlock leans forward into almost a crouch. 

"Sherlock, calm down. It's me. It's John. You don't want to do this." 

"Don't I?" Sherlock growls, making the hairs on John's arms stand on end. "Oh, I'm fairly certain that I do. God, the way you smell..." His eyelids flutter to half mast and the tendons in his neck bunch. John fights to keep his breathing even as he speaks. 

"Come on, this isn’t you. Think about this, Sherlock." The vampire lets out a short bark of laughter. 

"Think about this?" He shouts, "No matter what I do, I can't get you out of my head, so warm and vital and _perfect_. I thought it was hard before I left, but after I came back... God, after I came back, it's like being surrounded by opium after years of abstinence. It's all I can do not to pin you to the wall and drain you, you with your hair all ruffled from sleep, or your skin damp and pink from the shower, or your eyes tired and unfocused just before bed. Think about this?" He scoffs, eyes wild, and shifts forward, "I can hardly think about anything else!" And with that he lunges forward, and no amount of speed or muscle that John can produce could possibly rival that of a vampire in blood-lust. One moment Sherlock is across the room and John is trying his best to back away slowly, and the next John is pinned up against the wall, Sherlock's face buried in his neck, breathing in his scent as though his very life depended on it. 

"Sherlock, please, don't," John whispers, ignoring the small spike of arousal under his fear as his friend brushes lips over his jugular. 

"John," Sherlock groans, ghosting his mouth over the doctor's neck, "John John _John."_ He wraps one long-fingered hand around John's arm, having apparently forgotten about the broken thumb, and the other tangles into his hair, effectively trapping him. John feels his knees weaken, and here he is again, death staring him in the face. They're practically old friends, him and Death. He should start sending Christmas cards. He can hear his heart pounding in his own ears, and adrenaline singing through him, useless against the inhuman strength pressing him into the wall. He does the only thing he really can do; he begs. 

"Sherlock, please, don't do this. Please, don't hurt me." That brings the vampire up short, and he pulls his head back, meeting John's eyes, a look of conflicted confusion on his face. John knows his face must hold a very complicated expression of its own, but Sherlock's is much faster to dawn into realisation, his eyes widening, and he brings the hand in John's hair down to cup his cheek. Now John is even more confused. 

"No," Sherlock breathes, "Never, John. Is that what you...?" He draws back, consternation and pain flitting across his face. His mouth forms into a grimace, and he leans his head down, forehead resting on John's shoulder, taking in deep lungfuls of air and composure. John has absolutely no idea what is going on, but begins to understand when Sherlock speaks again. 

"I would rather be flayed _alive_ than hurt you, John. I don't want to hurt you, I want to _own_ you. I want to back you into the wall and drink from your throat while you tell me how brilliant I am until you are too weak to stand. I want to push you down on the couch and kiss you until neither of us can tell one of our mouths from the other's. I want to lie you down on my bed and ride you until you scream my name, then drink from you slowly and sweetly in the shower afterwards. I want to kneel and just press my face to your stomach and breath in the way you smell. I want to take you in my mouth and then drink from your femoral artery while you come in my hand. God, John, hurt you? I'd be _killing_ myself _._ " John feels as though he's been hit by a truck, and his mind races, trying to process the sudden unexpected onslaught of information. When he's blinked his way through the cobwebs dimming his mind, he realises that Sherlock is still hiding his face in John's shoulder, and his hands are trembling where they are holding John's arms. 

"Sherlock," John breathes, tenuous hope flooding through his mind, his heart. Sherlock pulls back, stiffly turning, not meeting John's eyes. 

"I'm sorry," he mutters, "I... please, just... forget I said anything. I'm sorry. I'll just-" he moves as if to leave, and John lashes his hand out, wrapping his fingers around his friend's cool, pale wrist. 

"No, Sherlock," John whispers, "I don't- I mean-" He draws in a steadying breath and steals his resolve. "Yes." Sherlock looks puzzled, the unspoken question written on his face. "Yes to all of it. All of those things, yes. Let's do all of that." Sherlock's eyes widen, his mouth open in disbelief. He looks incredibly conflicted for one moment, but then something in him seems to give and he lets out a strangled sound and lunges forward once more. 

Their lips meet frantically. Sherlock's left hand is around John's waist, pulling him closer, while his right hand cradles the back of John's head, protecting him from the impact as they once again crash into the wall. John grabs Sherlock's shirt, slightly the worse for wear from the aftermath of the explosion, and holds on for all he's worth. The vampire licks at John's mouth, requesting entrance, and John grants it, drawing a groan from each of them. Their tongues twist against each other, and Sherlock tastes divine, his mouth cool in contrast with John's own heat. John can feel the elongated points of Sherlock's fangs, and he sweeps his tongue under one, eliciting a moan from Sherlock, who presses a knee between John's legs and brings their hips together. John is already half-hard from the erotic pictures Sherlock’s words had painted, but Sherlock is like velvet-covered steel against John's thigh, and they both gasp at the sudden contact. John takes the momentary parting of their lips as opportunity to push Sherlock back until their foreheads rest against each other's. Both men are panting heavily. 

"We really can't do this here," John rasps, his voice gravelly with arousal. Sherlock growls in response, the sound sending a thrill up John's spine. "No, seriously-" he chokes for a moment and his eyelids flutter when Sherlock grinds his hips forward, "Sherlock, Mycroft’s extraction team is going to be swarming over this place any minute now. I'd rather not be caught with our pants down, literally or figuratively." Sherlock lets out a desperate-sounding chuckle at that, and pulls back to look John in the eye. His face is radiating disbelief and hope in equal measure. 

"You really mean that?" He asks. 

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure we've given Mycroft enough ammunition against us both without letting his agents walk in on us... like this." Sherlock rolls his eyes, but the expression is softened by the fact that his hand is still tangled against the back of John's head. 

"Don't be obtuse. It doesn't suit you. You really mean what you said... before?" John can hear the vulnerability behind those words, and tries to let all of his feelings show in his expression as he answers, 

"Of course. There's nothing I don't want with you.” John is too old for a crisis of sexuality. Not in the “I’m too old to possibly be attracted to men!” way, but in the “I’m far too comfortable with myself to be bothered by the fact that I want my very male flatmate to shag me senseless” way. He loves Sherlock. That’s not in doubt, not since he’d felt his heart break at the sight of Sherlock’s broken form, lying on the pavement next to Saint Bart’s. That he’s also sexually attracted to the madman? Well, that’s just one more piece in the puzzle of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. 

Sherlock looks... terrified? John has no idea what to make of that, but anything he would have said is interrupted by the thud of boots on the upper floors. Sherlock quickly pulls away from John, and they both raise their arms above their heads as two extremely well-armed commandos - one male, one female - in bulletproof vests turn in the doorway and sweep the room. 

“Captain John Watson?” The woman asks. 

“Just Doctor, but yes,” John answers. 

“And Sherlock Holmes?” 

“Yes, yes, obviously,” Sherlock snipes, falling back into his usual snarky disposition. Both men lower their hands, and the commandos fall into a more relaxed, defensive stance once the room is confirmed clear. 

“The upper floors have been secured, sirs. Detective Inspector Lestrade is coordinating with the Swindon police department, and the men who were holding you are being taken into custody.” 

“Casualties?” John asks, unable to stop himself. He hadn’t killed anyone, but the amount of gunfire makes him suspect that there may have been some injuries or deaths. His suspicion is confirmed when she answers, 

“One tango dead, one shot through the right leg, one with several broken bones and a concussion. One of ours was shot, but the vest saved him from anything more than a cracked rib. The second tango tried to stab his shoulder, but only managed a scratch,” She indicates her companion with her head at the last part. John nods, the back of his mind registering the NATO military jargon of “tango” for “target”. 

“Need any medical attention?” he asks the second commando. The man gives a minute shake of his head. 

“No, sir. Barely even grazed me, sir.” John sigh inwardly, and he can see the corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirk. 

“None of that. I’m a civilian. I don’t outrank you.” The commando looks sceptical, but has the good sense to remain silent. 

“Well, not that all of this isn’t thrilling,” Sherlock interjects, “But I haven’t eaten anything in two days, and I could really use a shower.” he pauses for a moment. “And access to a washroom.” John cracks a smile at his friend, and gets an unfathomable look in return. They need to have a talk, but Sherlock has other needs that come first. 

“Well, come on then, let’s go put a splint on that thumb and find the nearest facilities.” They trudge up the stairs, and out into the cool evening air. 

-x-   
  


Sherlock sits, begrudgingly, on the back of an ambulance, feet dangling over the side. He’s been allowed into a neighbouring home to give his face a cursory wash and use the toilet - thank goodness dehydration had prevented any more damage to his suit and pride. His hand, which has already started to heal, is in a splint, something that he’d only agreed to after John had threatened to break the other hand if Sherlock didn’t comply. He smiles a little at the notion, then scowls when a very smug Mycroft step into his field of vision. 

“You’re looking surprisingly well for someone who spent the better part of the past twenty four hours tied up in a basement,” his brother drawls. Sherlock wrinkles his nose in derision. 

“You’re looking surprisingly lean for someone who spent the better part of the past twenty four hours stuffing his face full of cake,” he retorts. It’s a poor insult, but he’s tired and hungry and reeling from what happened with John. _You are the very worst kind of monster_ he says to himself. Mycroft looks dreadfully condescending. 

“Really, Sherlock. If that’s honestly the best you can come up with, you must have been more distressed than I thought. Or perhaps this has more to do with a certain doctor who seems to have a penchant for running headlong into dangerous situations?” Sherlock glares at his brother, and imagines taking his umbrella and beaning him over the head with it. It doesn’t really help. 

“John’s faced things considerably more dangerous than a few morons with more ammunition than brain cells.” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean your captors,” Mycroft practically purrs, giving Sherlock a pointed look that makes him want to grit his teeth. “Did you tell John what exactly would happen to his if he lets you in? No, I didn’t think so. You might want to think about that, Sherlock. He deserves to know.” Sherlock stares straight ahead, pointedly silent. Mycroft sighs. “Well, I’ve said my piece. Here, drink this. It wouldn’t do to have you attacking some unsuspecting paramedic.” 

He hands Sherlock an opaque thermos, the kind one would expect to contain tea or hot chocolate. Sherlock knows that this one, however, is filled with blood. He tips it back and can’t help the way he gulps it all down. It’s cold and flat-tasting, in comparison to the memory of John’s scent, but he’s too hungry to care. The container is entirely drained within a minute, and he hands it back to Mycroft. 

“You’re welcome,” the pompous arse says, and then, when Sherlock’s only answer is to pretend that he can’t hear anything, he turns to go, calling out behind himself, “Do try to stay out of trouble. I’ll be in touch.” Sherlock growls in distaste, and wishes wholeheartedly that he’d kept the thermos so that he could throw it at his brother. He settles for glaring daggers at his back as he leaves, and then turns his attention inwards. 

Letting himself slip with John had been a mistake. He’d been tired and hungry and relieved at being rescued, and it had weakened his resolve. But the way that John had reacted had been... unexpected. Sherlock had been jubilant, and terrified. _I need to put a stop to this_ he decides firmly. _I’ll explain to John that I was addled by hunger and spoke without thinking. I’ll apologise, and tell him that I have no intention of following up on anything I may have said, and he’ll understand. He’ll look sad for a moment, and then give that heart wrenching understanding smile, and things can go back to how they were._ That decided, Sherlock turns his attention to the other matter at hand - there was still a vampire slave ring to deal with, and a certain bloodsucker to whom Sherlock owed a debt of pain. At last, he has a case worthy of his time. 


	6. For a Genius, You Sure Are an Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock... are you saying that you... have feelings for me?" Sherlock gives a longsuffering sigh.  
> "If you insist upon putting it in such pedestrian terms, yes."
> 
> Sherlock panics, John is endlessly patient, and the fridge is a biohazard, as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Here there be smut. It's pretty light so far, but don't say I haven't warned you.  
> Also, in this chapter, science is stretched almost to the point of breaking. Damnit Jim, I'm a writer, not a biologist.
> 
> Un-beta'd and un-britpicked. If anyone wants to put up with my mad ramblings and help me edit, I'd love you forever!

As much as John may want to sit down with Sherlock and have a good, long conversation, it quickly becomes obvious that there will be no talking until both men have had some sleep. By the time everyone's statements have been taken and things are sorted with the Swindon police department, John is practically asleep on his feet, and even Sherlock looks absolutely wrecked. The ride back to London, courtesy of one of Mycroft's fleet of ubiquitous black cars, is a blur, and the next thing John knows, he's being prodded awake by Sherlock. He doesn't even have the energy to do more than stagger into his room, pull off his trousers and shirt, and collapse on the bed. Moments after his head hits the pillow, he's fast asleep. 

The dream starts off like so many others. John's riding in a Land Rover, medpack in his lap, hot desert air in his face. That had always been his least favourite part of the Middle East, actual warfare aside. When London got hot, it was a humid heat, condensing on glasses of cold water and making the air heavy. Afghanistan was like standing in front of a hairdryer at full blast, non-stop. It was incredibly, endlessly dry. On calm afternoons, he and some of the other officers would talk about what they wished they could be doing, right at that moment. For John, when it wasn't "sleep through one bloody night without getting woken up every three hours" it was often "dive into a swimming pool and not get out until my entire body is wrinkled like a prune". 

Another common thread in these dreams is the explosion. The vehicle in front of them is thundering along, and then suddenly it's nothing but a giant fireball, twisted metal and flaming rubber flying out. John's rover careens to a halt, and its occupants pile out, Kelly already calling in the contact over the radio, rifles drawn and strategic positions taken up. This time, though, it's not insurgents holding old Russian guns that descend upon the soldiers. It's a tall, pale figure in a Belstaff coat, dark curls whipped by the desert wind. His men are screaming, terrified, while John tries to calm them down and explain. 

"It's alright! He's my friend! He won't hurt us! He's not going to-" John's made a liar when Sherlock reaches them, completely untouched by the shuddering gunfire, and grasps him around the throat, wrenching him to his feet. John can see the man's fangs, and his eyes are black, iris entirely swallowed by his pupils. John makes a choking noise, and Sherlock pins him against a wall. They're in a basement, the sudden jump of location making perfect sense in the way of dream logic. Sherlock snarls at John, and then slides the doctor down the wall and crushes their mouths together. 

To call it a kiss would be technically correct, but woefully inadequate. Sherlock is _consuming_ John's mouth, tongue plundering in as both men struggle for control. John gives in with a moan, and Sherlock hums his satisfaction, bringing the kiss from the edge of violence to something wanting and sensual. He sucks John's tongue gently, and growls when it's met with a little whimper. John, not to be one to be passive, pulls the detective against him, grasping his arse with both hands. Their pelvises meet and blood rushes to John's cock. He's so hard so quickly that it practically _hurts_. They break away, panting, and John sucks on Sherlock's neck, just below his ear, licking the salty sweet patch of skin. 

"Oh, god," Sherlock shudders, "John, _John_." He shifts his hips and both men gasp as their erections meet. John starts to rock, seeking the tantalising friction, and Sherlock buries his face in the junction where John's neck meets his shoulder, scraping fangs every so gently against the sensitive skin there. John bucks forward involuntarily. 

"Yes," he breathes, "God, yes. _Fuck_ Sherlock. Do it!" The vampire gives a pained groan, and whatever control he had is gone. John ruts desperately against Sherlock's hip and braces himself for the agony of teeth piercing flesh. 

It doesn't come. Instead, there's a brief flash of exquisite pain, making John's knees almost buckle, and then pleasure floods through his mind. Sherlock is moaning, drinking deeply, and it's as though John can feel everything that the other man feels. It's amazing, the feeling of bliss and incredible arousal, and the intensity pushes him to the brink of orgasm. 

"Oh _Jesus fuck_ , Sherlock!" He shouts, hips moving almost uncontrollably, "Oh, god, that feels- oh _fuck-_ fuck, I'm so close... Ah, don't stop, don't-" 

John wakes up just as orgasm hits, his back arching against the mattress as his cock surges and pulses warmth through the front of his pants. He comes so hard that he can feel it in his legs, and then collapses back down, breathless. 

_What the_ actual _fuck?_ He thinks, _I haven't had a wet dream since I was a teenager! And they were definitely_ never _like that._ He can't even bring himself to feel embarrassed, he feels so completely blissed out. He lies still, catching his breath and letting the incredible feeling of satisfaction wash through him. Once he's certain that he can stand without his legs giving out, he stumbles over to his dresser and pulls out a clean pair of pants, pitching the soiled pair into the hamper. He falls back into bed, and can't hold back a bemused little smile. His body is so remarkably relaxed and sated that he's asleep again in minutes. 

-x- 

Sherlock wakes up with a gasp. His fangs have descended in his sleep, and his pyjama bottoms are tented by a throbbing erection. The dream - the sensation of John's blood flooding into his mouth while the other man bucked against him - feels as though it had actually happened. He glares down at his crotch while his mind whirls with the implications. 

_It was just a dream_ , he says to himself, _it doesn't mean anything. Stop being so melodramatic._ His attempts at self-assurance are destroyed when he hears footsteps from John's bedroom above. He freezes, trying to hear why his flatmate would be up. Perhaps it's only a coincidence, and he woke from a nightmare or to use the loo. This wishful thinking, too, is dashed when he deduces John's actions from the soft sounds. Walking from bed to dresser, fetching something, walking to hamper, back to bed. Sherlock scrubs a hand over his face and groans. If he and John are sharing dreams, it means nothing good. 

Giving up on more sleep - three hours is perfectly adequate - he gets out of bed and pulls on one of his dressing gowns. Thankfully, his roiling thoughts have caused any lingering arousal to abate, and his teeth and other body parts are back firmly under his control. His ribs give a small twinge of protest at the movement, but his thumb is completely healed, and the worst of the bruises have started to fade. He makes his way into the sitting room. The possibility of some therapeutic violin torture is quickly dismissed. John would be cross, and would ask questions, and Sherlock isn't prepared to face his flatmate quite yet. He still has to figure out how to explain that what happened in the basement had been a mistake, and that while he holds John in the highest esteem, he has no desire for a relationship of a sexual or romantic nature. 

He lies back on the couch, hands steepled in front of his mouth, and contemplates The John Problem. It's obvious that his attraction is reciprocated; John's enthusiastic response to both the kiss and the ill-timed confession had left no room for doubt in that respect. He has no desire to hurt John's feelings with rejection. The look that his flatmate produces when injured emotionally makes Sherlock's stomach clench, and the idea that he might produce said reaction himself is nauseating. It had been hell, seeing how his "death" had affected John. No, lying to John about only wanting his blood because of hunger, and using sex as a means to obtain what he wanted, is out. 

Sherlock forms and summarily dismisses no less than eight different solutions before his mind catches on something. Specifically, something Mycroft had said. "Did you tell John what exactly would happen to him if he lets you in?" He'd been so busy being furious with the pompous arse that he hadn't seen the possibility behind the words. That's it, the solution to his problem. _When John gets up, I'll explain, in no uncertain terms, what a relationship with a vampire would entail_. John, being John, would be thoroughly repelled by the idea, and things would settle back into their previous equilibrium. There might be several weeks of surreptitious pitying looks from his flatmate, but that will pass. It's the perfect solution. His course decided on, Sherlock settles back to plan out exactly how he'll word his explanation, and to wait for John to awaken. 

-x- 

Morning comes gently into John's bedroom. It seems to be an abnormally sunny day in London, and light is streaming in through his curtains, which he hadn't bothered closing the night before. He feels like he's slept for days, though a quick look at the clock on his nightstand tells him that it's only half nine. Still, later than he usually sleeps. _I deserved a lie-in_ , he thinks firmly, _after running around getting shot at yesterday._ He can't hold back the grin that cracks on his face. It had been far too long since he had done anything so exciting. Once again, he feels that wave of relieved disbelief at Sherlock's return. They're on cases together again. John knew that he'd missed it, but the intensity of _alive_ that beats through him hits it home how much he really had longed for a good adventure with Sherlock again. 

_Speaking of mad genius consulting vampire detective flatmates,_ he thinks with a smile. The memory of last night's snog is quickly pulled to the forefront of his mind, not to mention the subsequent dream. A blush heats his face when he thinks of coming in his pants like a horny teenager, but he's a doctor, and he knows that nocturnal emissions are a perfectly natural occurrence, and nothing to be ashamed of. This in mind, he makes his way to the shower and prepares to face the day, and Sherlock. 

Downstairs, John is greeted by a very familiar sight. Sherlock is firmly ensconced on the sofa, in his thinking pose. John knows better than to attempt conversation when his friend is like this. At best, it would be met with silence, at worst, angry snapping about "interrupting". He resolves to wait to have the inevitable conversation, and heads into the kitchen to see if there's anything edible in the fridge. _Expired yoghurt, jar full of... dirt? Ah, worms. Blood - O positive, I wonder if he has a preference? Ah! Eggs! Reasonably fresh, too._ He grabs the carton, turns around, and finds himself face-to-face with Sherlock. He almost drops the eggs. 

"Jesus Christ! You can't _do_ that Sherlock! Are you _trying_ to give me a heart attack?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 

"No. That would be counterproductive. And it's hardly my fault that you're exceptionally unobservant first thing in the morning." 

"Exceptionally... you have superhuman speed and... sneaking powers!" John waves his hands, egg carton and all, and then pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, already feeling a headache building. 

"Sneaking powers?" Sherlock scoffs, "I believe the word you're looking for is stealth." He moves back to the living room, calling out over his shoulder, "Whenever you're done with breakfast, we need to talk." John stares after him for a moment. This is not the Sherlock that he knows. The cool arrogance and casual insults, yes, but the Sherlock that he knows avoids emotionally fraught situations the way that normal people avoid body parts in a refrigerator. John is suspicious, but also hungry, so he sets about making some fried eggs and toast before trying to figure out the layers of scheming and motivation behind his flatmate's sudden urge to _talk_ about something besides murder and the stupidity of the general populace. 

Once breakfast is done with, John takes his coffee (he prefers something a little stronger than tea first thing) and sits in his usual chair. Sherlock is perched in his own seat like great vulture of some sort. John momentarily has the absurd notion that perhaps his friend can turn into a bat, but quickly stamps that out with a fit of logic. If Sherlock could turn into a bat, he wouldn't have needed to be rescued the night previous. 

"You wanted to talk about something?" John prompts. Sherlock nods sharply. 

"Yes. About what happened last night." John's stomach does a nervous flip, but he tells it to behave. 

"Okay, that's good. We need to talk about that. How about you go first?" Sherlock looks... uncomfortable. The butterflies in John's stomach are quickly becoming an angry swarm of bees. 

"What I said..." Sherlock begins, "I was not thinking clearly. I hadn't fed for two days, and was filled with adrenaline and endorphins after having been rescued. Under normal circumstances, I would not have done what I did." John feels vaguely like he's eaten a lead brick in place of the eggs. Before he can speak, however, Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues. 

"What I said, however, is true." John blinks several times, before clearing his throat and saying, 

"So... You, I...” He gives up trying to parse together the meaning behind the convoluted sentences, “What do you mean?" Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

"I am physically attracted to you, and desire your company. Your presence triggers the release of dopamine and oxytocin in my brain. I find myself uncomfortable when I am unable to be near you, and enjoy when you are happy. " John spends a moment unraveling what exactly Sherlock is saying, before cautiously asking, 

"Sherlock... are you saying that you... have feelings for me?" Sherlock gives a longsuffering sigh. 

"If you insist upon putting it in such pedestrian terms, yes." 

John's first reaction is the butterflies working themselves into a frenzy, quickly followed by a rush of giddy excitement that he is only just able to keep off of his face. Sherlock looks concerned, and when John doesn't say anything for a moment, he starts to speak again. 

"Of course, if the feelings are not reciprocated, and your reaction last night was one based in adrenaline and testosterone, I will endeavour to-" 

"Oh shut up. I thought you were the world’s greatest detective. Of course I ‘reciprocate’, you prat." Sherlock blinks owlishly at him for a moment, before gathering himself and continuing. 

"Well. That's... yes, well." John is struck with the sudden urge to kiss his flatmate, but isn't given the opportunity. "I feel that you should know, however, that vampires do not have... relationships in the way that normal humans do." Now it's John's turn to look confused and concerned. 

“Um... okay... this isn’t some weird sex thing, is it? I mean, I’m a doctor, I’ve heard of a lot of- I won’t judge you or anything-” 

“Oh, do shut up before you give yourself an ulcer. It’s nothing to do with sex.” John sags back into his chair a little bit. “Well, some of it is, but not in the sense of some unpalatable paraphilia. Oh, wipe that stupid smirk off of your mouth. Will you let me speak without making insipid facial expressions?” John coughs to cover a chuckle, and holds up his hands in surrender, attempting to school his face into expressionless serenity. Sherlock begins with his explanation. 

-x- 

“A relationship, of the romantic and sexual variety, between a human and a vampire can be... complicated,” Sherlock begins, watching carefully to gauge John's reactions. “In the case of true pair bonding, there are some... consequences that can develop.” He pauses, and John furrows his brow. Sherlock waits for the inevitable barrage of ridiculous questions. He is not disappointed. 

“Would I become a vampire?” 

“No.” 

“Would I grow fangs?” 

“No.” 

“Would I be able to deduce things like you?” 

“ _No._ ” 

“Would you develop a sudden interest in James Bond films?” 

“ _N-_ wait, maybe. God, I hope not. Probably not.” 

“Would- hold on, what?” 

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “As I was _trying_ to tell you, in the case of romantic and sexual pair bonding between a human and a vampire, there are some potential side-effects that can occur. The most common are shared dreams, short-range telepathy, and an intense dislike for blood belonging to anyone else.” John just blinks for a moment. 

“You’re joking, right? Telepathy? I thought you said this whole vampire business was scientific?” 

“It is scientific! Would you shut up and let me speak?” 

“Sorry, sorry.” 

“Something about the virus recognises the necessity of companionship that exists in most humans, and the tendency of vampires who have a partner to live longer and produce more vampiric offspring has given a distinct advantage to mutations that allow the virus to assist in these endeavours. It hasn’t been studied very well; vampire scientists are sadly few and far between, and the few members of my species whom I have met who were bonded were not terribly receptive to the idea of scientific inquiry on my part.” John tries to cover his amused smile with a cough, causing Sherlock to scowl. 

“Regardless, from what we _do_ know, the virus seems to allow access to potential that already exists within the human brain, 'activating', if you will, some of the 80 or so percent of latent brain power that the average human does not use. As a side-effect, however, the vampire involved develops a sort of dependency on the human partner for his or her blood supply, to the point where other blood is distasteful and not as nourishing.” At this, John looks distasteful, and Sherlock feels a momentary stab of fear and rejection. _Stop that. This is good, this is what you want._ He presses forward into the more disturbing effects. 

“Some very strong emotions can be inadvertently shared through the connection, in addition to physical sensations such as pain. There are also unpleasant consequences in the case of separation or termination of the relationship, including, but not limited to, illness, depression, and possibly death.” He closes his eyes, willing his breathing to remain steady. He doesn’t want to look, to see how successful he’s been in driving John away. It’s necessary, but _god_ does it hurt. How is it that it can hurt this much, to know that John is going to reject him, to say no? 

A touch on Sherlock’s hand forces him to snap back into reality and open his eyes. John is still sitting across from him, a gentle look in his eyes, reaching out to touch his friend’s hand. Sherlock braces himself. He should have known that John would be heartbreakingly kind. He’s seen it with girlfriends, before his “death”. 

“ _You’re a wonderful woman, Caroline. You’re kind and generous and beautiful. But you deserve someone who can give you what you need, and I’m not him. It won’t work between us. I’m sorry.”_

“ _I have never met a woman like you before, Tracy. You’re one of the most well-spoken, witty, wonderful people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. But I can’t be there to take you to ballets and dinner parties, you need someone who can. It won’t work between us. I’m sorry.”_

Sherlock can almost hear the words already. “ _You’re a brilliant vampire, Sherlock. I’ve never known a man so intelligent and clever. But I can’t tie myself to you that way. I’m too independent. It won’t work between us. I’m sorry.”_

“You daft idiot,” John says softly. Sherlock opens and closes his mouth twice, unable to make anything come out, before snapping his teeth together. This doesn’t sound like a usual John Watson “let them down gently” routine. “You really think you can scare me off so easily? For a bloody genius you sure can be thick sometimes.” 

Sherlock's brow wrinkles as he tries to understand what's happening. “What are you talking about?” 

“What you just described there - pain, depression at the loss of a partner, unhealthy attachment to the point of codependency - we already _have_ all of that, Sherlock! When you died... god, when you died, I was so _broken._ I already- as far as I’m concerned, the only difference would be that I get to kiss you whenever I like, and maybe have to donate blood on a slightly more regular basis.” 

This is not what Sherlock was expecting. Of course, leave it to John to take all expectations and throw them up in the air, light them on fire, and then stomp on them for good measure. _This isn’t how this was supposed to go!_ He despairs, 

“No, John, you can’t do this! Why can’t you understand? I would _destroy_ you! I can’t simply _be with_ you. I want to _own_ you, to _devour_ you. You musn’t let me!” He has to make him see. As much as it may hurt now, it’s better than what would happen if John were to let him in, let himself be destroyed. He couldn’t stand if that were to happen. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. John’s mouth turns into a flat line that Sherlock recognises as his “Sherlock is being an arsehole” face. He’s seen it more times than he can count. 

“I mustn’t _let_ you?” The smaller man looks rather large and annoyed at the moment, “You listen here, Sherlock Holmes. I am a grown man. I have made it through many a sleepless night in med school and residency, I have invaded Afghanistan, I have been made to wear a vest made of semtec while a psychopath pointed snipers at me. I’ve punched the Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard, and I’ve buried my best friend believing that he'd killed himself because I wasn't- No, no. If you are under the misguided assumption that you are capable of making me do _anything_ that I don’t _want_ to do, then you are either supremely stupid or willfully delusional!” 

Sherlock is at a loss for words, a very uncommon situation, and is one that he finds to be extremely discomfiting. John’s eyes are blazing, and his hands are tensed into fists. He’s glorious, and Sherlock has no idea how to respond. 

“Supremely stupid it is, then,” John murmurs, some of the tension ebbing out of his posture. His voice is much less angry when he says, “Sherlock, I think that we have a shot at something really rare here. I know that you’re a bit... intense, and have a tendency to behave like a petulant child when you're unhappy, and I can be an idiot who is far too willing to chase you around into god-knows-what sort of danger, but if you honestly think that we should throw away whatever sort of chance we might have then I might just have to punch you right in your ridiculous, absurdly beautiful cheekbones.” 

Something inside Sherlock breaks. No, perhaps “breaks” is not the right word. Break implies that something has gone from solid to pieces in a sudden fashion. It’s more like the last little sliver of ice melting in a glass of water, disappearing and leaving nothing but liquid behind, and there is nothing left to hold onto. All that’s left to do is sink. 

He doesn’t launch himself across the room, as much as he might like to. He stands, John watching calmly, and approaches the other chair. He does his very best not to loom - he’s been told that his looming can be very disconcerting, especially for someone significantly shorter - and he bends down until he’s at eye-level with John. For a heartbeat, the two men stare at each other, and then, ever so cautiously, Sherlock leans in. 

This kiss is nothing like the one the night previous. It’s barely a brush of lips, soft and warm and chaste, but it still has the same dizzying effect on Sherlock. He can hear John’s pulse pounding in his ears, and he can’t help but bring a hand up to rest gently against the soft blonde hair, not quite long enough to tangle in his fingers. John lets out a quiet little sigh, and Sherlock pulls back, calling on any willpower that he has left to resist the urge to turn the kiss into something more. 

“There now, was that so difficult?” John says, his voice low, his eyes smiling. A corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up. 

“You have no idea.” He leans in and closes the distance between their mouths again. 


	7. Interruptions Abound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock is going to kill his brother. He is going to murder him, and then he's going to go after Lestrade."
> 
> The boys suffer from a string of unwanted guests, and take on a rather sinister human trafficking operation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in posting! Real life decided to be more difficult than usual this week. I hope that you all enjoy this chapter, and thank you so much for your kudos and lovely comments! They make me want to write all day, every day. 
> 
> A huge thank you to my new and wonderful Beta and Britpicker, [CrackshottKate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CrackshotKate/pseuds/CrackshotKate), who has not only helped with this chapter, but has gone over the entirety of the previous chapters as well! Expect better spelling, grammar, and Britisms from the very beginning, once I actually have time to convert things to HTML and post.

Kissing Sherlock is sort of like kissing the sun. He is incredibly intense, and being the sole object of his focus would be enough to burn most people to a crisp. Fortunately, John Watson is not most people. When their lips meet for the second time, he's prepared to give as good as he gets. 

This second kiss is nothing like the tender brush of lips against lips that had happened moments before. This is Sherlock saying "to hell with it" and letting himself go. His tongue darts forward, requesting entrance to John's mouth, and the smaller man is happy to oblige. Sherlock is clever with his tongue when it comes to speaking, and so it strikes John as no surprise that he is equally clever with it in other areas. The teasing brush of warm wetness in his mouth draws a soft hum from John, and Sherlock groans like a man in the desert getting his first drink of water.   


John finds himself crowded back into his chair, his lap suddenly filled with six feet of consulting detective. One of Sherlock's knees is between John's legs, and the taller man is straddling his thigh, hands gripping the back of John's head as though terrified that he's going to pull away. John tries to communicate his intention to stay by sucking gently on his flatmate's tongue, and running his hands up under the back of his shirt. The bare skin under his palms is warm and firm, and John trails his fingers up the other man's spine. Sherlock shudders gently and starts rocking his hips back and forth, seeking some sort of friction but obtaining nothing due to their position.   


John makes a small, frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and tries to reorganise them in the armchair to allow them both better access. Sherlock, genius that he is, understands the intention immediately, and shifts backwards to move his knees to either side of John's legs, breaking their mouths apart to run kisses down John's jaw and over his throat.   


"Oh, John, please," Sherlock keens, "God, I need- please please." John grabs ahold of the (gorgeous) arse seated in his lap, and pulls them together until-   


"Oh!" He breathes softly when their pelvises meet, his own cock straining against his trousers to meet Sherlock's clothed erection. Both men begin shifting against each other, foreheads touching and faces wearing mirrored expressions of breathless desire. For a heartbeat, they stare silently at each other while they move together. John’s afraid that Sherlock will disappear if he breaks eye contact, but then long, pale fingers are pulling at John's flies and he can't keep his eyes open.   


"God Sherlock," he moans, his head falling back. The taller man is still struggling with the buttons on John's trousers, and every brush of his fingers over John's prick is like torture. He bats the other man's hands away and deals with the buttons himself. Sherlock follows suit, and in seconds both erections spring free, drawing groans of relief from each man. John wraps a hand around them both and his hips buck forward against the exquisite sensation of skin on skin. Sherlock lets out a small noise of desperation and his phone chimes from the kitchen table.   


"Ignore it, ignore it," Sherlock pants, thrusting into John's fist, "God, you feel so good." He leans forward and their mouths meet in another frantic kiss. John tips his head back again after a moment, sucking in lungfuls of air.   


"Fuck, Sherlock," he breathes through clenched teeth, "You're so hard." The only response is a small noise that, were it coming from anyone else, John would call a whimper. Sherlock's phone starts to ring, but they're both distracted, chasing completion. Sherlock leans in, his breath ghosting over John's ear, and he whispers lowly against overheated skin.   


"John, please, can I- can I-" John knows what he's asking, and nods wordlessly, still pumping his hand over their cocks. Sherlock's mouth opens over John's carotid, and John braces himself, not sure if it will hurt or be like it was in the dream - a sudden heady rush of pleasure. He can feel Sherlock's tongue against his skin, and then the slight pressure of teeth, when-   


"Sherlock! Open the sodding door!" Lestrade's voice bellows from out in the hallway. _Oh god, this isn't happening._ John's rhythm falters, and Sherlock freezes in his lap. "I know you're in there, I heard your phone ring! We need to talk!" John groans and lets his head fall back against the chair. _Just my bloody luck._ His erection is already flagging in the face of the embarrassing situation.   


"Shit, we’d better talk to him," John says, starting to push Sherlock to get off of him. Sherlock, for his part, looks caught between misery and fury, and is staunchly refusing to move.   


"I'll come down to the station later!" He shouts in the general direction of the door, "Now piss off!" He moves to go back to snogging, but John isn't having it.   


"Look, Sherlock... Sherlock! We can talk to him and then- oh, christ, yes- no... no! Stop that!" He grabs hold of both of Sherlock's hands and forces them (at great personal cost) to stop dancing over his chest and groin. Sherlock scowls.   


"Don't make me get the key from Mrs. Hudson!" Lestrade calls. Sherlock makes a pained noise, but removes himself from John's lap, and they both set about straightening their clothing as best as possible. John winces a little as he adjusts himself in his trousers. Blue balls may not actually cause any damage, but he's going to be very uncomfortable nonetheless. Sherlock opens the door, treating Lestrade to a glare that is positively murderous.   


"Why did you even disconnect the bleeding doorbell in the first place?" The Detective Inspector demands as he strides into the room, "You knew I'd want to talk to you about-" he pauses when he catches sight of John. "Oh, morning John, sorry to barge in like... Oh!" His eyebrows fly up as he realises what he's interrupted, and John can feel a wholly unwanted blush steal across his face. Lestrade looks remarkably uncomfortable.   


"Sorry lads, I didn't think that, er... well," he clears his throat, "Yes, well, sorry. But really Sherlock, stealing my case files? Running off headlong into god-knows-what? You're damn lucky that you have a brother like Mycroft and a," he stumbles on the word for a moment, "a friend like John." Sherlock has quickly composed himself into his usual aloof superiority, and John wishes for a moment that he could brush off embarrassment as easily as his flatmate seems to.   


"It all turned out fine in the end," Sherlock says, "And I've obtained valuable information about your human trafficking ring."   


"How on earth could you have found 'valuable information'?" Lestrade demands, "You were tied up in a basement!" John can already see what's coming before Sherlock even opens his mouth, but is completely unable to stop it from happening.   


"Do you practice being this incredibly stupid, or is it a natural gift?" Sherlock sneers.   


"Now you listen here," Greg takes a step into Sherlock's space, and John prepares himself for the possibility of having to pull them off of each other.   


"The mud on my captors shoes, their places of origin and previous occupations, the weapons they were carrying. They were not a well-organised band of mercenaries. Frederic hired them himself, all of them ex-convicts, all of them having been in the vicinity of the Mitches Park within 12 hours before coming to Swindon."   


"Hold on," Lestrade says, "Frederic? Who's Frederic?" John looks at Sherlock, also confused.   


"The man in charge of your human traffickers. I haven't got anything more than that yet, but I've only been looking for a few hours. Now, if you'll please exit the flat, John and I were trying to get off and I would very much like to continue our previous activity." John winces and covers his face, and Lestrade looks incredulous. Sherlock is... Sherlock. Completely unperturbed by any supposed breach of social propriety.   


"Sherlock..." John admonishes, mortified.   


"What? It's the truth! If he hadn't barged in here being an idiot we both would have achieved orgasm by now, and could be part way through our respective refractory periods and heading towards another round!" John closes his eyes. _If the universe would like to open a great hole and swallow me up, now would be the perfect time,_ he thinks. Lestrade holds his hands up.   


"That is _far_ more information than I needed to know. Send me an email with what you have on this Frederic fellow. And just... ugh. Goodbye." He turns and leaves the flat, pulling the door behind him. John fixes his flatmate with the glare that has made at least one Private cry.   


“Good,” Sherlock says, clearly oblivious to John’s ire, “Now that he’s gone, I think we should head for a bedroom. As enjoyable as it was in the chair, a bed would certainly make things easier and I for one-”   


“Sherlock, I swear to god, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’m going to punch you.” That brings the detective up short.   


“What? Why?”   


“Are you- you’re not serious. My god, you are. What you _said_ , you moron! In front of Lestrade!”   


“Oh, that. It was the truth, why are you upset?”   


“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you chose to air our _private business_ in front of the Detective Inspector? Who happens to be my friend? I don’t think I’ll be able to meet his eye for a solid week...” This last part is muttered more to himself than Sherlock, who looks confused and irritated.   


“So... you’re angry because I told Lestrade that we were getting off?”   


“Yes.” This earns a pause, and John can practically see the gears turning in Sherlock’s head. It’s less than half a second before his expression goes blank, effectively shuttering off whatever he’d been thinking.   


“You would prefer not to inform people about the change in our relationship dynamic,” He says calmly. John is stunned, and can only stare when Sherlock continues. “I should have realised. You’ve professed your heterosexuality on numerous occasions, and it would raise awkward questions were you to suddenly be seen in a relationship with a man. I apologise for the slip up in front of Lestrade. It won’t happen again.” He couldn’t have sounded more cold if he’d tried. John finally finds his voice, and grabs ahold of Sherlock’s arms before he can leave.   


“Would you just shut up and listen for once in your life, you great prat?” Sherlock continues to look blank, and John feels like a grade A arsehole. “I’m not ashamed of you, Sherlock. No, look, don’t turn away from me. I’m not. You are... brilliant. Amazing, really, not to mention painfully gorgeous. Yes, you’re the first - and only - man I’ve ever felt this way about, and yes, it may make things a little bit awkward at first - Harry is probably going to kill me for not coming out in solidarity or something - but I have no desire to keep our... relationship a secret. If you like, I’ll call up everyone we know and tell them I’m mad for you. I’ll hire one of those skywriting planes to fly over London!” Sherlock seems to be caught somewhere in the middle of confused, pleased, and contrite. It makes for a very endearing facial expression.   


“So... you’re angry because...?”   


John sighs. “Because telling intimate details of one’s sex life to other people is just not on.” Sherlock nods slowly, absorbing the information.   


“So... if I had told Lestrade that we were busy... having a breakfast date?”   


“That would have been fine.”   


“And if I had said that I wanted him to leave so that I could kiss you senseless?”   


“Well, he and I probably both would have blushed, but it would still have been alright, I suppose.” John can feel his heart rate speeding up. Sherlock’s voice gets gradually deeper, and there is a predatory look in his eyes as he edges John towards the wall.   


“And if I had said that he had to go because it was my intention to back you up against the door, kneel in front of you, and suck you off until you scream my name?” John swallows, and licks his lower lip, his gaze darting to Sherlock’s mouth. Footsteps sound from the stairway outside the front door.   


“Oh for GOD’S SAKE!” Sherlock bellows, making John start and bite his lip to hold back a laugh. It would be cruel to show his amusement while his friend - partner? lover? they were going to have to work out terminology - is so frustrated. John has no envy for whomever it is that opens their front door.   


“Mycroft, of course,” Sherlock bites out at the sight of his brother, “What do you want?”   


“Good morning, brother mine,” Mycroft drawls, a self-important smile on his lips, “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything?” Sherlock practically snarls when he replies.   


“You know very well that you’re interrupting, so hurry up and spout your nonsense and then _leave us alone._ ” Mycroft remains silent and unflappable, and saunters over to Sherlock’s usual chair, then gestures for the other two men to sit. John sinks down onto the sofa, but Sherlock remains standing, arms crossed, and radiates hostility towards his brother.   


“I understand that you discovered some new information with regards to this human smuggling business,” Mycroft begins, peaking John’s interest, “You’ve made the acquaintance of one Frederic Neller, is that correct?” Sherlock nods curtly.   


“He informed me that there is a fairly substantial reward in place in return for my demise,” Sherlock says. John does not like this pronouncement one bit. Mycroft raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t appear terribly surprised.   


“Did he happen to mention who has offered this reward?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Pity. Nonetheless, Mr. Neller is flouting the law and endangering our society and its secrecy. I was hoping that you and your,” he looks pointedly at John, “ _companion_ could put an end to his activities.” John is confused.   


“Okay, could someone maybe explain the conversation that’s happening underneath this one? Because you two are clearly talking about something else, and I would really appreciate being let into the loop. Neller? A bounty for Sherlock’s head? What’s going on?” The Holmes brothers release twin sighs of irritation.   


“The human trafficking case that I was looking into,” Sherlock explains, “The ring is being run by a vampire: Frederic Neller. They are not supplying the sex industry. They are importing... meals.” John feels vaguely ill.   


“My god, they’re selling human lives as food for vampires? I thought you said that wasn’t allowed!”   


“It’s not,” Mycroft says, “Hence why Sherlock is being asked to put a stop to it. You’ll be compensated accordingly, of course,” he adds.   


“And a reward for Sherlock’s death?” John asks, ignoring the anxiety that flares up at the mention of “Sherlock” and “death” in the same sentence.   


“Neller mentioned it before leaving me with his thugs,” Sherlock says before turning his attention to Mycroft, “You can’t tell me to take this case. It was already my case. I’m not doing it because you’ve asked me to, I was already taking care of it.” John can feel a laugh tugging at the edges of his mouth. He knows that if the case weren’t already interesting to Sherlock, he would abandon it out of sheer spite.   


“Of course,” Mycroft simpers, “Well, don’t let me keep you. Rumor has it that Neller is planning to move his operation by sundown. You’d best be quick about finding him and putting a stop to all this, Sherlock. Your... other activities will have to wait.” Sherlock looks to be seconds away from either tearing his brother in half or crying from pure frustration. John saves them all the indignity by standing to show Mycroft the door.   


“Lovely to see you, Mycroft. Do stop by again. Call first, though. Sherlock and I were rather busy.” Mycroft gives a little sniff of distaste, but quickly changes it into a pained sort of smile.   


“Of course, Doctor Watson. And may I say, congratulations, if that’s the right word. I do hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.” John tries very hard not to slam the door right in the man’s smarmy face, then turns to face Sherlock.   


"Well, I guess we better go catch a vampire slave runner, eh?"   


-x- 

Sherlock is going to kill his brother. He is going to murder him, and then he's going to go after Lestrade. He and John could be lying in bed, naked, sweaty and sated, but instead they are sneaking around an old office building looking for the leader of a human trafficking operation. He hasn't been this sexually frustrated in decades. He hadn't even been interested in most of the years before John. After the disaster that had been Victor at the beginning of the last century, he'd pushed that part of himself aside, and eventually the desire had ceased altogether.   


Now, though, he cannot even focus properly on the task at hand. Mycroft had been right, loathe as Sherlock may be to admit it, and they would lose Neller if they were to wait. Fortunately, Frederic is the type of vampire who subscribes to all of the worst trappings of their kind, as was often the case with younger members of their species, including sleeping during the day. Sherlock had been correct in his suspicions of his origins. Neller had indeed been a Nazi, turned at some point during the last months of the Second World War, and he had taken all of the ridiculous parts of vampire mythology to heart. It is honestly surprising that they are casing an office building and not a crypt. 

"So, what's the plan?" John whispers. Sherlock can't hold back the pride he feels. This man - this caring, loyal, fiercely capable man - wants him. He smiles softly with joy at the existence of this unbelievable human being.   


"He'll have five or six armed guards, two where he sleeps, and three or four guarding their 'stock'. It would be best if we take out the guards near the slaves first, and get them out of the building before going after Neller. You smell fantastic. It's all I can do not to strip your clothes off and bury myself in you right here. Do you think you can take out two of the guards without alerting the others?" John blinks in that endearing way that he does when something unexpected happens.   


"Uh, yeah, I can... What? Where did that-? What?"   


"Good. The civilians will be in the parking structure under the building. We can go in through the back staircase. I'm half-hard just thinking about your mouth on mine. Did you set up the text to send to Lestrade?" John is looking at him as though he's mad. It's one of the most arousing things Sherlock has ever seen.   


"Okay, yeah. Sure. Um, the text, yes, it's ready. I'll send it once the lower guards are all out, so the Met can intercept the civilians. Do you know that you're saying those things out loud?" Sherlock gives the look that means _don't be an idiot_.   


"Of course I do. I haven't suddenly lost the ability to control my own mouth. Are you ready?" If anything, this just makes John look more confused, but he just shakes his head with a laugh.   


"Absolutely bonkers. You're completely insane, you know. Yes, I'm ready. Let's get this done with so we can go home and I can fuck that gorgeous, filthy mouth of yours." Sherlock smiles as a frisson of desire skitters down his spine, and they head out towards the emergency exit doorway, and the stairs beyond.   


Breaking into the stairs is ridiculously easy. Sherlock is a little miffed that it isn’t more of a challenge, but he picks the lock with a deft hand, and cuts the little wires supplying power to the fire alarm that is meant to sound if the door is opened. He and John slip through, and wordlessly make their way down to the parking levels.   


The first basement is actually being used for parking. Three old cars sit empty, as well as four unmarked vans that are obviously used to transport the people that Neller is selling. Sherlock and John crouch behind one of these vans, peaking out to take in the ramp down to the lower level. There is one guard, armed with an M16 assault rifle and decked out in all-black “commando” gear. _Good god, Neller certainly does have a flair for theatrics._ The goon is standing at the top of the ramp, not paying very good attention. John catches Sherlock’s eye, and makes a series of hand signals, a system worked out after a particularly interesting case where John had tried to communicate to Sherlock, across an empty room, that there were two men lying in wait in a nearby closet. Sherlock hadn’t paid John’s absurd flailing any mind, and had ended up needing fifteen stitches. The recuperation that had followed had been filled with the two flatmates coming up with a rudimentary sign language, most of which is meant to communicate danger, although one John had included to mean “get your own tea, you bloody tosser, I’m busy”. Sherlock still doesn’t see why that one is necessary, as it doesn’t come up terribly often.   


In this instance, John tells Sherlock _one man, patrolling up the ramp, probably on a circuit._ Sherlock nods. Yes, he can hear the footsteps echoing through the mostly-empty structure. _Wait to see how long the loop is._ John communicates. Sherlock nods, and leans in until his front is flush against John’s back, earning a small start of surprise. He wraps an arm around the smaller man, buries his nose in soft blonde hair, and wishes briefly for a hand signal that means “you smell like sunlight”. It’s appallingly sentimental, but he can’t bring himself to care. John is _his_ now, and he’s _allowed_ to do this, to touch and scent and taste. He limits himself to a small kiss on the top of that wonderful skull, and thrills at the little sigh that John gives, the way that he places his hand over Sherlock’s where it rests on his chest. For the hundredth time, Sherlock can’t help but think of this man as his oasis. _I missed you, John Watson,_ he thinks silently.   


A total of five minutes pass between the patrolling guard’s first appearance and his second. Five minutes in which Sherlock holds John, and John rubs little circles into the back of Sherlock’s hand. Five minutes in which Sherlock’s re-awakened libido makes itself very known, and then they pull apart to figure out a plan. 

It’s simple, really; attract the attention of the stationary guard, get him up past the barrier, knock him out, then wait for the patrolling guard. Repeat. John, being the slower of the two, gets to be the “attention grabber” while Sherlock slips soundlessly to the wall next to the ramp.   


All in all, it takes less than thirty seconds. John throws something small in the opposite direction from where Sherlock is standing, the stationary moron with a gun edges forward to investigate, and Sherlock grabs him from behind, knocking him out with a nerve pinch so fast that he doesn’t let out so much as a peep. The two men drag the thug behind the van and bind him quickly with cable ties and duct tape. John grabs the guard's weapon, and his ridiculous commando beret and jacket, and in an instant looks (from a distance at least) like one of the guards.   


Grunt number two is taken care of with a swift rifle butt to the nose and a hand over his mouth, and then there are two idiots tied up behind the van, and there is more freedom to speak.   


“So, what’s the plan once we get down there?” John asks, carefully rounding his words to prevent his whisper from hissing. It gives him a soft lisp that makes Sherlock want to suck on his tongue. 

“We have to get down before they suspect their patrolman has gone missing. I would suggest subterfuge. Keep the hat and jacket, bind my wrists, walk me in as a prisoner. Once we’re close enough, we take out the one or two guards left down there before they radio up to Neller’s rooms.” John expresses his distaste for this idea.   


“You want me to walk you into hostile territory with your wrists bound together, completely unarmed? You’re mental. That’s not happening.” Sherlock sighs.   


“Don’t be an idiot, John. Put the cable ties around my wrists.” John remains stationary. “ _Do it!_ ” Sherlock hisses, and John complies. “Now, tell me I’m helpless and bound,” Sherlock says, breaking the ties with a sharp tug of his wrists and unleashing his fangs, grabbing John by the collar and pinning him to the wall. “Tell me I’m unarmed,” he whispers into the skin of John’s neck. The smaller man’s heart is beating very quickly, and the smell is everything Sherlock remembers, but they need to move, so he pulls back. John swallows, pupils enlarged, and blinks several times before pulling himself together.   


“Fair enough. Let’s get on with it.”   


In the end, it’s easy. One guard remains below, standing watch over a half dozen shivering young women and one young man. Sherlock can smell their fear, their malnourishment. The very idea that any vampire would pay to feed from someone so lacking in vitality is disgusting. He knows what it’s about, and it’s not the blood. It’s the killing. Hopefully Neller can be _persuaded_ to share the names of his clients.   


John plays his part beautifully, shoving Sherlock along down the ramp, rifle in his hands. The guard looks up from murmuring disgustingly sexual abuse at one of the prisoners - a girl who can't be past fourteen - and shouts out,   


"Hey, what's this then?" John jabs at Sherlock with the end of the rifle, prodding him forward, closer to the other man.   


"Found this skulking around. Think he's some sort of detective." The guard sneers, but then squints at Sherlock.   


"Hold up, bring him here. Lemme see his face." Sherlock can sense John's hesitating, but his friend still steps forward to push Sherlock along. Another six inches or so will be all he needs. "Hold on... I know about this fucker! He's that vigilante Freddy warned us about!" The guard makes for his radio, ostensibly to warn the others in the building that they've been found, but the movement also brings him close enough to Sherlock.   


With a quick snap of his wrists, he breaks the plastic cuffs, and has his hand around the man's throat just as the thug reaches for his gun.   


"I wouldn't if I were you," John intones from over Sherlock's shoulder, "He could break your neck before you'd even get it out of your holster." Sherlock smiles darkly, allowing his fangs to flash at the man, and the air takes on the sharper scent of fear not dulled by resignation as the slaves is. The goon looks positively petrified.   


"L-look," he stutters, "Let me go, I won't cause any trouble. Please!" Sherlock gives John a quick nod, and the guard is swiftly cuffed and gagged. John pulls his phone out and sends the text to Lestrade, then turns to address the seven prisoners and sets about removing tape from mouths and cuffs from both hands and feet.   


"It's alright, you're okay," he croons, in a voice Sherlock knows has been used to calm wounded soldiers and distressed patients, "We're going to get you out of here. Does anyone speak English?" He is met by blank looks, but Sherlock sees one girl - the one whom the guard had been harassing - duck her head down in an effort to go unnoticed.   


"She does," Sherlock says, pointing at the girl, who tries to shrink down even further. John gives her a warm smile.   


"It's okay. I just need you to help make sure everyone here knows what to do. We're going to lead you upstairs, and there will be people waiting outside who can help you. You can trust us." Sherlock snorts, earning a glare from the doctor.   


"Oh, please, as if they're going to trust you simply because you've said they can. The last people they trusted promised a better life in England, and then turned around and slapped them in chains to be vampire food." Another of the girls in the group - this one closer to twenty - points at Sherlock, and cries out,   


“Vampīrs! Viņš ir vampīrs!” The others in the group flash him looks of terror, and try to crowd closer together. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s said. John looks dismayed, and Sherlock sighs.   


“Fabulous,” he intones, “This definitely won’t make everything needlessly difficult.” John looks cross at the sarcasm, but remains silent. “Text Lestrade again. Tell him they’re going to have to come in to get the victims. We have more important things to deal with than a bunch of superstitious blubbering.” This gets that little head-tilt, pursed-mouth look that is so very John Watson.   


“Sherlock...” he chides.   


“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says, waving the judgment away with his hand, “Bit not good, I know. Now, come on. We need to move before someone figures out that their basement comrades are no longer answering radio calls.” He sets off without a backward glance, but hears John follow behind him with a sigh, typing out a text message on his phone. He lets a smile break through onto his lips as they head for the stairs, the upper floor, and Neller. He really had been lost without his blogger.   



	8. Bullets and Tear Gas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John grumbles, “Got any genius ideas? Because by my count I have twelve bullets left in this magazine, and then the thirteen in the Browning, and then we’re fucked.”"
> 
> Things go to hell, Sherlock gets in a little over his head, and John isn't sure how to handle an anxious vampire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not dead yet, folks!
> 
> I'm sorry for the long gap between posts. My muse was being stubborn, but I've successfully wrangled it back into submission now! Thank you to my lovely Beta and Britpicker, [CrackshotKate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CrackshotKate/pseuds/CrackshotKate) and apologies for my impatience. This hasn't been fully edited yet, so any mistakes are all my fault. Kudos and comments make my day!

John is reluctant to leave the victims behind to head towards the top floor and Frederic Neller, but Sherlock tells him that the police will take care of things soon, and all of the young women and men will get therapy and citizenships, courtesy of Mycroft.

“When our kind does something like this,” he explains as they climb the stairs, “Others try to make up for it as best as possible. Mycroft just happens to be in a position to do more than most.” John considers this for a moment, then asks a question that has been bothering him for several weeks.

“It Mycroft’s held a position in the government for so long, how is it that people aren’t catching on that he hasn’t aged for hundreds of years?” Sherlock looks pleased, presumably at John asking an intelligent question.

“I was wondering when you’d ask about that. Every decade or so he ‘retires’ and takes a little ‘holiday’ for several months. When he comes back, he’s already had another position set up for himself somewhere equally as unimportant and mundane as the last. Hardly anyone meets with him face-to-face, and the people who do have the necessary security clearance that they are not uninformed with regards to his... condition.” 

John nods. That makes sense, though now he has an entire further branch of questions blossoming in his mind. They’ll have to wait, as they’re swiftly approaching the fourth floor of the office building. 

“So, you said Neller is into all the stereotypical vampire nonsense, right?” he asks, “Anything in particular I should be expecting? Coffins? Capes? A terrible Transylvanian accent?” Sherlock gives him a withering look, and doesn’t offer any response. “You’re no fun. Well, what’s the plan, then? Storm in, guns ablazing?”

“Unless you were planning to get shot before the day is out, ‘guns ablazing’ may not be the best approach. Besides, I’d rather have a little chat with Mr. Neller before we turn him over to Lestrade.”

“Won’t it make things a little... difficult, having a vampire in jail?” This earns another eye-roll.

“Honestly, John, you do yourself a terrible disservice when you don’t use your brain. He won’t be in police custody for more than an hour, at most, before Mycroft sends in some MI6 goons with special warrants and all the appropriate paperwork. Neller will be ‘taken care of’ before the sun sets.” John is pretty sure that he doesn’t want to delve too deeply into what “taken care of” means. Mycroft is already scary enough without knowing how far he can go to make someone disappear completely. 

“Same plan as the basement, then? Sneak in, knock some of them out, tie ‘em up?” Sherlock shakes his head.

“No, I think that a good old fashioned ‘keep your hands where I can see them and don’t make any sudden movements’ approach should work fine.” Ah, John likes that approach. He’s good at that approach. He smiles widely at Sherlock (who blinks as though blinded for a moment) and holds out his Browning, handle towards his friend.

“I’ll keep the rifle. If we end up needing to fire, I’m considerably more qualified to actually use it.” Sherlock doesn’t take offense, however, simply smirking as he takes hold of the handgun.

“Try not to kill anyone. If we need a warning shot, a pistol will do far less damage than a semi.” They both break into matching grins - entirely inappropriate, but when has that ever been a problem? - and get into position to burst through the stairwell door and into Neller’s rooms.

It all goes to hell fairly quickly after that.

First off, Sherlock, in a situation that rarely occurs, has been wrong. Neller does not have two guards outside of his quarters. He has three, and no matter how good John is, he’s not that good, so what should have been a simple matter of them each pointing a gun at one person and shouting “Don’t fucking move!” descends rapidly into Sherlock and John ducked back behind a corner with John laying down cover fire, praying that his magazine doesn’t run out, while Sherlock texts Lestrade and Mycroft. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” John grinds out between bursts of gunfire, “I can’t keep them all in that office forever, Sherlock! Eventually, they’re gonna rush that door and one of them’s going to - fuck! - going to get through, and then we’re going to get our arses shot! And while you may be bulletproof, I am definitely not!”

“I’m not bulletproof,” Sherlock growls, tucking his phone back into his pocket, “I just won’t die unless they get me through the head or the heart.”

“Bullet _resistant_ then,” John grumbles, “Got any genius ideas? Because by my count I have twelve bullets left in this magazine, and then the thirteen in the Browning, and then we’re fucked.” He leans back out to fire a burst of three bullets into the door frame, preventing one of the guards from getting out of the outer office they’re trapped in. “Nine, now.”

“Quiet! I’m thinking!” Sherlock bites. 

“Think faster!” John hisses, firing off another set of rounds, “Six!” Sherlock is silent for a moment, before letting out a soft breath.

“Oh... I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve getting shot, I’ll like it just fine!”

“Yes, exactly.” John take a moment to process this before realisation dawns.

“Oh, _hell_ no! You are _not_ allowing yourself to get shot!”

“It’s not like I’m planning on just waltzing out there to stand in their line of fire! I am capable of moving with great speed when I so desire! There’s a 68% chance that I won’t get shot at all, and a 91% chance that I won’t get hit anywhere that would cause significant damage! It’s the best solution!” 

“Nope. Nope. Nuh uh. Not - three - not happening. Hand me the Browning.” Sherlock doesn’t. “Sherlock, hand me the sodding gun or so help me-” He doesn’t have the opportunity to finish the thought, as a voice cuts him off.

“Mr. Holmes! I know that’s you out there. So nice of you to drop by! I wish you’d called ahead, I would have made sure to have a proper welcoming party here to greet you.” The accent is faintly Germanic, and John assumes that it must be the vampire they’re here to stop. 

“Oh, are we exchanging witty banter now?” Sherlock calls back without leaving their cover, “How original. Shall I make some sort of comment about how simple it was to break up your little operation? Perhaps make a nauseating simile about uninvited party guests?” John can’t quite suppress a little burst of silent chuckling.

“Come now, Mr. Holmes,” Neller responds, “Don’t be childish. You’re far too old for that.” 

“You’re an idiot, Frederic,” Sherlock says, “Surely even some as dense as yourself must see that you’re trapped.” John sighs. They have more important things to be doing. 

“Oh!” Neller exclaims at John’s sigh, “You haven’t brought some commando with you, you’ve brought your _mate!_ I didn’t think you _had_ one!” Sherlock hisses in a breath, making John look over at him sharply. _Oh dear._ “I wonder what they’d pay me for you _and_ your mate? He must be worth at least a tenth of what they’re offering for you.” _Well,_ John thinks, _that’s just not on._

“Would you like to come out here and discuss it?” John hollers, “I’m an excellent shot, you know!” When no answer is forthcoming, he and Sherlock exchange a look. _How long until the police or Mycroft’s men get here?_ John asks without words.

 _At least five minutes,_ Sherlock indicates with his hands.

 _Think we can keep this idiot talking and not shooting for that long?_ The answer is a looks of determination.

“Do you really think you’re going to get away with this, _Freddy?_ ” Sherlock asks, “They know what you’ve been up to, and they’re not pleased.” There’s a brief pause, then he continues. “You’ll be lucky if all they do is put a blade through your heart. I think Mycroft wants you in a box.” That earns a low growl that John can only barely hear from their vantage point.

 _Box?_ he mouths. Sherlock shakes his head. _Not now._

“Are you threatening me with Big Brother, now?” Neller calls back, “Is that what it’s come to? I wonder how he’d bring me in if I have both you and your mate at gunpoint.” John is starting to think that this guy might deserve more than a life (even an eternal one) in prison. Perhaps a quick bullet to a knee cap would help with his disposition.

“Oh, I assure you, Mycroft cares far more about protecting the interests of our kind than protecting me. And John is more than capable of looking after himself.” The corner of John’s mouth ticks up. At least Sherlock’s finally figuring that out.

“I don't doubt it,” Neller calls back, “But that may be a little difficult for him to do in a moment.” John glances nervously at Sherlock, whose eyes are moving swiftly back and forth as he tries to parse meaning from what the other vampire has said. His mental search quickly becomes redundant when the metallic _tink-tink-tink_ of something against the flooring reaches their ears. John knows that sound. He's heard it in his training, during exercises in clearing a building. It's a gas canister of some kind. _Oh god, please not tear gas,_ he wishes fervently, _anything but tear gas._ He remembers CS gas all too well from practicing with gas masks. Even the thin, diluted version they'd used in training had burned up his nose and made his eyes itch and sting for days afterwards.

Of course, he's not that lucky, and the hiss of the release of thick white gas is accompanied by the first wave of vague watering in his eyes.

“Shit,” he swears, pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose in the only defense available to him, “He's got tear gas. Cover your mouth and nose as best you can.”

Sherlock looks furious. “We can’t just leave him here! He’ll be long gone by the time the police reach this floor!”

John’s sinuses are already starting to burn. “Well, then come up with a plan _quickly_ because this stuff it going to turn us into sitting ducks! We’ll be completely blinded by tears, streaming snot out our noses, and probably get shot!”  
“It won’t affect me like it does you,” Sherlock says, and he closes his eyes for a moment, calculating every possible outcome for the event, and then opens them again.

“Do you trust me?” John hesitates for a moment, not because he doesn’t, but because people usually ask “do you trust me” right before doing something immensely stupid. He nods suspiciously, and immediately has his fear confirmed when Sherlock hands him the Browning, says, “Then get to the stairwell!” and then bolts around the corner.

John swears, and holds in a yell for the other man so as not to give away what’s happening. He’s sorely tempted to follow, but his eyes are burning, and his nose feels like it’s full of hot peppers, and he’s basically completely useless. Thankfully, he hasn’t heard any gunfire yet. Cursing a blue streak, he dashes for the stairwell, slamming the door closed behind him before pulling out his phone and punching one of his speed dials.

“Doctor Watson?” Mycroft answers.

“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, they’ve just deployed tear gas on the top floor, and Sherlock’s run off to play Rambo, and I’m stuck in the East stairwell of the uppermost floor with no idea what the mad bastard’s doing. How soon can you get people up here?” He hears Mycroft sigh on the other end.

“They’ll be with you in less than five minutes. Stay put.” He rings off.

John waits for all of sixty seconds before he hears gunfire out in the hallway, and says to hell with common sense. He pulls his shirt up over his nose, checks the Browning, and silently pushes the door open, peering out.

Fortunately, the canister had been relatively small, and the gas has started to dissipate, but he still feels it stinging his eyeballs. It’s eerily quiet, and it makes John’s heart hammer with fear for what may have happened. His vision is blurry with tears, but he edges along the wall towards the office where Neller had been hiding. The first thing he notices are three bodies on the ground outside: Neller’s goons, all wearing gas masks. John steals one, and hurriedly places it over his own face. His eyes and nose are still streaming, but at least now it won’t get worse. He inspects the men, and confirms that all three are alive and unconscious. He’s not sure how Sherlock knocked them out, so he swiftly binds their wrists and ankles in zipcuffs. _God bless whoever invented zipcuffs,_ he thinks.

He freezes, hearing something. There are voices coming from the office. First there’s Neller’s faintly accented English, his tone vitriolic, followed by Sherlock’s rumbly baritone. John breathes a sigh of relief. Sherlock is alive, and well enough to be speaking. He edges the door open, and takes in the scene.

Neller has been tied to a chair, his nose broken, dried blood on his face. He’s glaring daggers at Sherlock, who’s leaning against the wall in front of him, holding his arm. John flings the door open and hurries over to the detective, pulling off his gas mask as he goes.

“John, glad you’re here. Neller’s subdued for now, but I seem to have been shot,” Sherlock greets him, calm as can be, “It won’t kill me, but it’s rather uncomfortable.”

“You idiot!” John shouts, “Sit down! Let me get your jacket off.” The taller man slides down the wall, and John grabs his uninjured arm to prevent him from jarring himself too badly when he hits the floor. He takes a look at where the bullet’s gone in, and grimaces. “It looks like a through and through, but I want to have a closer look. Hold still, I’m going to have to cut your shirt off.”

“John, if you want me naked, you only need to ask,” Sherlock drawls. Neller makes a disgusted little huff behind John, who turns around briefly to address him.

“You keep your mouth shut, or I’ll shoot you in the stomach.”

“Oh, how frightening!” Neller mocks, “You _do_ realise a bullet there won’t kill me?”

“Oh, I know,” John says coolly, “But have you ever been shot in the gut? It hurts like a son of a bitch, and I’m a doctor. I know _exactly_ where to hit you to cause the most pain.” Neller sneers, but keeps his mouth shut. John turns his attention back to Sherlock, and grabs the trauma shears from where they’re strapped to his ankle. When one deals with Sherlock Holmes on a regular basis, one can find it useful to be in possession of a pair of scissors capable of cutting through metal, or, in this case, expensive silk shirts.

Sherlock scowls at the destruction of his clothing, but remains wisely silent. John’s furious with him. How could he go running off like that? Four against one! Regardless of vampire strength and speed, he could have suffered a lot worse than a bullet in his arm. He could have- could have-

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, his tone gentle, “I’m fine. It’s just my arm. It’s fine, I’m fine.” 

“You ever do _anything_ like that again,” John says, inspecting the wound, “I will kill you myself.” It appears that the bullet has indeed entered and exited relatively cleanly. Thankfully, it also appears that it hasn’t fractured upon entry. “You’re going to need to get that stitched up.” Sherlock looks put upon for a moment.

“Just leave it,” he tells John, “As long as the bullet’s out it should be fine by the time we get back to the flat.”

John bawks. “Sherlock, this isn’t a little cut I can stitch up at home or put a plaster over! This is a bullet wound!”

“Yes, and I’m a vampire. It’ll be fine. Come on, help me get my jacket back on. I can hear people coming up the stairs.”

Both men stand, and John pulls his gun from the back of his trousers, just in case. Footsteps thud out in the hallway, and then a voice calls out,

“Mr. Holmes! Captain Watson! We’re coming in!” A heavily armed woman wearing a gas mask pops around the edge of the door, sweeping the room with her rifle before calling “Clear!”. Four equally well armed men follow her in. 

“Glad to see you’re alright, sirs,” The woman says, nodding to John and Sherlock and pulling the mask up off of her face.

“Fancy seeing you again,” John greets her, recognising her as the same woman who had shown up at the house where Sherlock was being held captive. She doesn’t really _smile,_ but John can see the corners of her eyes crinkle with amusement. 

“We have to stop meeting like this,” she says, while two of her comrades head over to Neller, who has started shouting abuse and threats in equal measure. John grins, and turns his attention back to Sherlock, who looks about ready to jump out of his own skin. 

“What’s wrong?” John asks. Sherlock shakes his head.

“It’s not important. Let’s go. I’ll leave Neller’s interrogation to Mycroft and his... specialists.” John shudders to think what, exactly, Mycroft’s “specialists” might specialise in, but decides he’s definitely better off not knowing. 

“Thank you for the help, again,” John says to the commando woman. She winks at at him.

“Just doing our jobs, sir.” Sherlock chooses that moment to grab John’s wrist and drag him bodily out into the hallway, and then through the door to the stairs. 

“Sherlock, what’s gotten into you?” John asks indignantly, trying to free his arm from the detective’s grip, if only to wipe ineffectively at his watering eyes. The other man flashes him an unreadable look and just continues to pull John along, down the stairs, and then out into the street. There are several police cars, and three ambulances with paramedics treating the people who had been rescued, along with a large, black SUV and two of Mycroft’s ubiquitous black sedans. The man himself is present, talking hurriedly into his mobile, but turns a bland smile on John and Sherlock when the two men approach.

“Yes, he’ll be delivered shortly,” the elder Holmes says into the phone, “Olivia and her team... Yes, I’m beginning to see why she’s been promoted so quickly... Yes, yes. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He rings off, and turns to Sherlock. 

“Quite the fuss you’ve caused this week, brother dear. First Swindon, now this? I intended for you to _investigate_ Neller, not rush headlong into a building filled with armed criminals without even bothering to inform the police or myself. You’re lucky I had Olivia’s team on stand-by for just such a possibility.”

“I’ve got Neller for you,” Sherlock says flatly, “I trust you’ll be able to extract the pertinent information from him?” John does his best to hide his wince at the thought of the methods of “extraction” that are likely to be employed. Mycroft, however, notices everything.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Watson, Frederic Neller will be treated as is his right under our laws.” Knowing what he does of vampiric law, John doesn’t find this terribly comforting. Mycroft turns to Sherlock again. “I’ll have you driven home. You’ll be informed when we know anything.” 

The car ride home is oddly tense, and John can’t figure out why Sherlock is being so unusually quiet. The silence follows them into 221B, and up the stairs to the flat. John stands just inside the door for a moment to remove his shoes, and then leans back against the wall. Now that the adrenaline has left his system, the effects of the tear gas is becoming evident once again. He takes a moment to press the heels of his hands against the burning in his eyes, swearing softly. Sherlock is instantly in front of him, pulling his wrists away from his face.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? What can I do?” John’s bemused smile is a strange contrast with the tears now flowing down his cheeks. Solicitous Sherlock? What has the world come to?

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he waves his hand, “I’ve always had a strong reaction to CS gas. Got no end of grief about it in basic. One of the guys called me ‘Weepy Watson’ until I punched him in the nose and made _him_ cry.” This doesn’t earn quite the relaxed smile from Sherlock that John’s hoping for, but some of the worry leaves his expression.

“I don’t like it when you’re hurt,” Sherlock murmurs, pouting. John chuckles.

“I don’t like it when I’m hurt, either. All I can really do is flush with a lot of water, and have a shower. Eyedrops might not hurt.” Sherlock places a hand on his shoulder almost tentatively, his face full of concern and - guilt?

“John,” he starts, then falters for a moment before continuing, “I know that if I try to keep you out of danger, you’ll probably punch me in the face,” John smirks as that - it’s true, “but I... you should be, that is... I don’t want you to-” he makes a strangled sort of frustrated noise, and then grabs John’s face in both hands and kisses him.

It’s a very different kiss than the heated exchange in the chair earlier that morning. It’s gentle and deep, and one of Sherlock’s hands comes up to tangle in John’s hair, not pulling or demanding, but soft and stroking. John feels almost... cherished. Cherished and _wanted_ , with the way that Sherlock’s tongue is twining with his own. He groans softly, and then startles a bit when the vampire pulls away from his mouth and licks his cheek where one salty tear had been making its way down.

“You said something about a shower?” he rumbles into John’s ear, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Oh yes,” John replies, grinning hungrily at the other man. He takes his hand, and leads him towards the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, showers and smut.


End file.
